


Drowning

by ancilla89



Category: Blue Bloods (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Depression, Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 91,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancilla89/pseuds/ancilla89
Summary: The case with Corporal John Russell (4x13, "Unfinished Business") forces Danny to face his own demons.TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of PTSD and torture. Multiple suicide attempts. NO major character death! Hotline #: 1-800-273-8255 UPDATED 02-01-2020ORIGINALLY POSTED ON FANFICTION.NET.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

"I…I'm drowning, Doc."

"I'm on my way, Danny. Where are you?"

His mouth was too dry to answer, and Doc asked, "Are you at the precinct?"

He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he choked.

"I'll be there in 20 minutes. Call Linda."

He didn't call Linda; he just sat there, staring at his desk and seeing nothing but John Russell's face.

* * *

Footsteps, then Doc sat down next to him and set down a cup of hot cocoa.

He looked up at Dawson, feeling as if he were trying to move underneath a crushing wave. "You said not to wait 'till I was drowning. It's too late," he whispered, and put his head back in his hand.

"It's not too late, Danny. I'll help you. But before we talk…did you call Linda, let her know you're okay, that you'll be home late?"

He shook his head. "I can't. What time is it?"

"A little after nine. You really should call her, Danny."

He shook his head numbly. "I can't…"

"Do you want me to call her?"

He nodded, reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

* * *

Alex Dawson took the phone, rose, and stepped out of earshot of the traumatized detective—but still close enough that he could see him. He scrolled past Linda's name, to another one of Danny's contacts.

"'Ello?"

"Sergeant Gormley, this is Dr. Alex Dawson."

"Aww, hell, Doc, is Danny alright?"

"No. Does he have any sick days accrued, and can he take one of them tomorrow?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, I'll take him off tomorrow. He's supposed to be off Tuesday through Saturday for the family camping trip, anyway."

"Thanks, Sergeant. Good night."

He hung up, pressed speed-dial 1.

Linda answered on the second ring. "Hey, Danny."

"Linda, this is Dr. Dawson. Danny's fine. Physically, he's fine."

"But not emotionally, which is why you're calling me. Did the soldier…?"

"Danny tried to talk Corporal Russell down, but the Corporal committed suicide right in front of Danny."

He heard a stifled sob. "O no…how is he?"

"He's grieving, and he's in shock. I ran into Detective Baez, who told me she had to drive them back here. I think we'll be here for a while, and I already talked to Sergeant Gormley: he'll give Danny the day off tomorrow."

"Good. Help him, Doc, please. He's been simmering since this case started; he snapped at Jack the other day; he's not sleeping, he's not eating…he needs to work through this before he breaks."

"I'll do my best, Linda; it's a good sign that he reached out, recognized he needed help."

"Can I talk to him?"

* * *

Doc was back. "Linda wants to say good night. She's worried."

Danny took the phone. "Hey," he sighed.

"I love you, Danny Reagan." Linda's words were hollow against the tidal wave of anger and shame and grief.

"Love you…more," he whispered, cursing as his voice cracked.

"Love you most." She paused. "I'm proud of you, Danny…I'm proud of you for calling Dr. Dawson, for being willing to talk to him. Let him help you, Danny. I love you," she said again.

"Love you most." He hung up, threw his phone down on his desk, and glanced over at Doc.

He swallowed hard, mouthed the words silently, took a sip of cocoa.

"I couldn't save him, Doc," he whispered.

"It's not your fault."

He bolted upright at that, slamming his fist down on the desk. "I let a fellow soldier fall to his death! I stood there, and I did nothing! How the hell is that not my fault?" He slumped down, leaned his head on his hand again. "I should've…waited for backup, called ESU, something, dammit!"

"And if you had waited, he might have taken Tommy with him when he jumped."

Doc paused for a minute. "I ran into Detective Baez on my way in. She says you talked with John, you stayed up there talking with him. Sounds to me like you did a lot."

"Not enough."

"Danny, he…Danny, he had already made up his mind. John chose to fall off that roof. He wanted to die, because he didn't see any other way out of the post-traumatic stress disorder. If you had tried to physically force him off that ledge…it's possible he would have dragged you with him—to your death. Would you have wanted to do that to Linda, to Jack, to Sean?"

He shook his head, held his breath at the thought.

"Breathe, Danny."

He flinched at the grip of a warm hand on his arm. "Breathe with me, Danny. In through your nose…one, two, three, four…out through your mouth…one, two, three four, five."

He let out a shaky breath, and Doc let go of his arm. "That's it, there you go. Walk me through what happened on that roof, Danny."

He shifted in his chair, scrubbed at his face with his hands, told Doc what had happened.

He would never be able to forget the words he had said on that roof. He had opened up—in a way he never had, even to Linda—and still he had failed.

He had failed, and a fellow Iraqi War vet was dead, and what business did he have being alive when he hadn't been able to save John Russell?

He beat the desk again with his fists. "Dammit, I promised him I'd help him myself. I would've listened to him, soldier to soldier…dammitall!"

A stray tear rolled down his face, and he swiped it away angrily. "He said he didn't know why he survived. I told him it was so he could get back to his family. He said no, he got it 'cause he was quick. I tried…I told him it was time to come home. He saluted me; I said, 'Don't do this.' And then he…he…he let himself fall backwards."

_He was back on the rooftop, hands beating the concrete wall as he screamed "Dammit!" at the top of his lungs and then sank to the roof, his head in his hands_.

He flinched at the touch of a hand on his arm, and realized he was pounding his desk with his fists. "Dammit!"

"I'm sorry you had to see that. It wasn't your fault, Danny," Dr. Dawson said gently.

"How the hell was it not my fault, Doc?" The tears he'd held back earlier were slipping down his face now, but he didn't stop them. "I couldn't save him..."

"I know. I'm sorry, Danny." The doc let go of his arm, and he shivered. "What did you do then?"

"I…I…screamed his name and then…I ran to the wall and…looked down…and saw him…on the ground. And then I…sorta crumpled onto the rooftop. I…don't know…how long I sat there…before Baez came. We…got a uniform to bring Mrs. Russell to the scene so she could get Tommy, made the notification to her; then Baez drove us back here, and we filled out all the paperwork, and now here I am."

"You normally drive, Danny. Why did your partner feel she needed to drive back?"

"Why do you think, Doc? Because I couldn't! I was shaking, I couldn't see straight…all I could see in my head, over and over, was John falling off that roof."

"You were in shock, which is a perfectly normal reaction to seeing someone end his own life right in front of you."

He took a swallow of his cocoa. It was cold, and he frowned. How long had they been sitting here?

He let out a shaky breath. "Jack gave a family history presentation in school on Friday. Kid thinks I make a difference in someone's life every single day." He cleared his throat. "I don't, Doc. I couldn't save John Russell."

"But you saved Tommy. You saved the life of a scared little boy. And you saved Mrs. Russell from having to bury both her husband and her son."

"But I couldn't save a fellow soldier. Again."

"Which leads us back to your guilt over your brother Joe and over your time in Fallujah."

"I can't talk about that, Doc."

"The Army failed John Russell…didn't get him the help he needed. Just like the Marines failed you. How many years has it been, Danny? Six, seven?"

"Nine. And I can't talk about it."

"You can't, or you won't?" The words hung in the air, and he picked up the Styrofoam cup to hide his shaking hands. "Have you ever talked about it, Danny?"

While he was being so damn honest, might as well keep it up. "Just enough to get through the mandatory evals."

"Linda said you haven't been sleeping, you haven't been eating…you've been so on edge, you snapped at Jack. Just say the word, Danny, and I'll help you."

He set the cup down, leaned his head in his hands, and looked at the picture of his family on his desk. It blurred in front of him, and he remembered Jack's face on Friday…the fear that he had seen in his older son's eyes…the fear that he had put there.

He took a shaky breath, let it out. "I…can't live like this anymore, Doc. I need help."

"Good job, Danny. That's the first step. You've had a long couple of days, so we'll stop here. I'm free tomorrow at 3. Does that work for you?"

"Long as a case doesn't come up, yeah."

The doc sighed. "About that, Danny. A case won't come up. I called Sergeant Gormley, told him you needed the day off."

"Doc…you can't…"

"Already did, Danny. Come on, I'll drive you home."

"I'm not gonna drive off a cliff, if that's what you're worried about, Doc. I can drive myself home."

He stood up, grabbed his things, and left.

He drove on auto-pilot, parked, sent a text to Doc: "I'm home."

Linda was waiting for him inside, and he held her close, vaguely aware that he was shaking.

He shook his head when she asked him what was wrong, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would never be able to keep his head above the waves.

Damn Doc and his f-g accurate drowning analogy.


	2. Chapter 2

After Linda woke him from a nightmare for the third time, he gave up on sleeping and went downstairs to the punching bag—until Jack wandered in, rubbing his eyes and whining that he'd woken him up.

"Sorry, kid, couldn't sleep."

"Are you still mad at me, Dad?"

He shook his head, took the gloves off, and sat down. "No. I…had a hard case and it made me think about a lot of those really bad things you talked about in your presentation, and…I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry, kiddo."

Jack tackled him in a bear-hug, and Danny held him close.

After a while he said, "It's 1 a.m., Jack, go back to sleep so you don't fall asleep in school. You've gotta pack for our camping trip when you get home."

The kid nodded and went upstairs, yawning; and Danny went back to the punching-bag.

He was up and down the rest of the night, took a cat-nap on the couch, then went in to the precinct to wrap up paperwork before they left the following morning for their camping-trip.

* * *

His phone buzzed at 2:30, and he left for Doc's office.

Dr. Dawson was eating a slice of pizza when Danny walked in. "Hey, Danny, sorry about this. I didn't have time to grab lunch earlier. Want a piece?"

"Not hungry, Doc."

"Aww, come on, Danny, it's from Zingoni's, you know how great their pizza is."

"If this is some plot to make sure I eat, I see right through you."

"No plot, Danny; I'd just feel bad eating in front of you."

He sat down and threw his tie over his shoulder. "O, all right then."

He choked down one slice, wiped his fingers. "Happy now, Doc?"

The younger man looked at him. "Did you get any sleep?"

He shrugged.

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah. The usual, with an added twist of John Russell falling to his death over and over again."

"I'm sorry." Doc paused for a beat. "What's your 'usual' nightmare?"

He shook his head. "I can't…" He couldn't talk about those nightmares—not now, not this soon.

"Let me make a guess, then, and you tell me if I'm right or not. Your time in Fallujah?"

He nodded, pressed his back into the chair, gripping the arms so hard his fingers hurt. "I…I can't talk about that."

Doc held his hands up—a non-threatening gesture. "Okay, okay, take a breath, Danny, we don't have to talk about that."

He took a shaky breath and loosened his grip on the chair. "I apologized to Jack this morning."

"And did he forgive you?"

"He didn't say anything, just gave me a bear hug."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Ticked-off. Ashamed that my thirteen-year-old son is more forgiving than his old man."

"Children often are. Remind me: what made you snap at Jack?"

Danny rubbed the back of his neck. "He was doing a family history project for school, asked me about Pop's and Dad's and my time in the Marines, thought it was cool that all three of us served. I told him I definitely did not think it was cool. I also corrected him that the family legacy is service, not combat."

"How did Jack's question make you feel?"

Damn, he hated that question. "Angry. That he was curious. That he thought combat was something to be proud of."

"Are you telling me you're not proud of your service?"

"I didn't say that, Doc! I'm proud that I served my country. I'm not proud that I had to fight and kill for my country."

"I'd be worried if you were, Danny."

He sighed, shook his head. "Right after that, Linda got on my case for jumping down Jack's throat, said he was just curious. I told her I don't want him to be curious about the military service in this family. Then she asked me if I was really gonna try to tell her that my getting mad at Jack had nothing to do with the memories this case is bringing up. I told her yes, it had nothing to do with it."

"Do you think she was right—that the case is bringing up memories you'd rather not face?"

"Maybe. But damn, if I ever hurt one of my boys the way John Russell hurt Tommy…"

"You didn't, Danny. And remember that John Russell wasn't in his right mind—he was probably trying to protect Tommy from some perceived threat. Yelling at Jack once doesn't make you a bad father, doesn't make you the kind of guy who would kidnap his own son and nearly kill him." He stood up, walked over to the coffee machine. "Want a cup?"

"Sure."

Doc poured two mugs of coffee, then handed one to him. "What are some of the memories the case brought up?"

He was holding the mug so tightly his knuckles were white. He took a sip, set it down before he threw it across the room. "I can't…"

"Yes, you can, Danny. You're safe here, and nothing you tell me will ever leave this room. Tell me about your nightmare."

He stood up and stalked over to the window. With his back safely to the doc he let the memories wash over him, pinching his arm so the pain would keep him grounded in the present.

_He's on the roof of an abandoned factory in Fallujah. There's nowhere to hide from the bullets and bombs. John Russell is in his Army uniform, feigning a fall. "Thought you could save me, Marine?"_

_He hears the thuds of bullets hitting soft flesh, the whines of the missiles. Screams fill the air._

_John Russell salutes him and then falls._

_As suddenly as he had fallen, John reappears on the ledge, salutes him, and then falls again…over and over and over again._

_In the distance, he sees the desert towns and destroyed buildings of Fallujah. Bullets whistle past him, and he darts behind the makeshift shelter._

_But John is still there, taunting him. He cries out, again, "John, look at me! It's time to come home, man! Don't do this! Dammit!"_

His voice broke, and he stomped angrily on his own right foot.

"Don't do that, Danny."

"Don't do what, Doc? Try to keep myself from having a full-blown flashback?"

"Don't hurt yourself."

Doc had seen that. Damn observant man. "High pain tolerance."

"Come sit down, Danny, please."

"I'm good over here, Doc."

"That's a pretty intense nightmare. John Russell's death was not your fault."

"You said that yesterday."

"And it bears repeating—his death was not your fault." He paused. "Tell me about the case—anything that struck you, or walk me through it from the beginning."

He sighed, stalked back to the chair, picked up his coffee cup, and drained it. Then he sat down cautiously, on the edge of the chair.

He shrugged. "Not much else to tell."

"What about Detective Baez? She's your partner, so I take it there are things you share with her that, perhaps, you don't tell other people?"

He sighed again. He had hoped to keep this moment to himself, but it had been playing on an endless loop behind all the other crap. "When we visited John's best friend...they were in the same unit on their first tour…he gave us the run-around. I told Baez if we were patient, he'd lead us to John—because they served together, they're like brothers."

He swallowed hard, let out a shaky breath. "She asked me if I still keep in touch with any of the men from my unit. I told her no. She pushed it, and threw my own words back in my face: she thought we'd be like brothers. I told her I don't, and she still pushed, dammit!"

He swallowed again, ran his tongue over his dry lips. "I…I…had to tell her that I don't keep in touch with them because…because I'm the only one who made it home."

"I'm sorry, Danny."

"Linda knows…Pop and my dad know, but…that's all they know. I couldn't…I can't…talk about any of the rest of it."

"How does that make you feel, Danny…being the only survivor?"

"Dammit, Doc, how do you think I feel? I feel angry, I feel guilty—there was this kid, we called him 'Chuckles,' he was 19 freakin' years old, and he died because he took my turn on patrol because I'd twisted my ankle! If I'd gone out on patrol that night, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting here talking to you, because a sniper would have put a bullet in my neck!"

He took a shaky breath, feeling his heart pound in his chest. "Why him and not me? Why the hell am I the only one who made it home?"

"I don't know, Danny. But I do know that it's not your fault you're the only one who made it home."

He glared at the psychologist. "You did that on purpose, dammit…you asked an open-ended question so I'd open my mouth and spill my guts. Dammitall, Doc."

Alex Dawson shrugged. "Sorry, hazards of the job."

Doc locked eyes with him. "Do you remember asking me last year why anger is such a problem? It becomes a problem when it masks other, more painful emotions, like sadness, depression, guilt. I asked you a few days ago, but you didn't answer: Are you depressed, Danny?"

He sighed angrily.

He wanted to bolt. No one had asked him this question since that last debriefing after he returned from Fallujah, and then it had been easy to lie.

He nodded quietly.

His phone rang... _saved by the bell_...his dad, with a reminder to pick up the kerosene for the camping trip.

He stood up. "Sorry, Doc, I've gotta run...have a bunch of things to do before we leave at 0500 for our Manly Man Camping Trip."

The doc rose. "You did good today, Danny. Have a good time with your family. Call me when you get back, and we'll schedule your next appointment."

He nodded and left.


	3. Chapter 3

After a great 4 days camping with his grandfather, father, brother, and son, Danny came home a day early to take care of a few things. He caught a case on Sunday that barely left him time to eat or sleep until Gormley kicked him and Baez out of the office at 8 p.m. Monday.

He knocked on Doc's door at 8:30 p.m. "Sorry I'm late, Doc. Tough case. You didn't have to wait around."

"Danny, when you asked to continue these sessions, I told you I would be available whenever you needed to talk. How was the camping trip?"

"Good. Look, Doc, that's not why I'm here."

"I know. How have the nightmares been?"

He glared at the younger man. "You're assuming that that wasn't a one-off last week."

"Uh, uh, uh, Danny. You described the nightmare as 'the usual, with an added twist.' Tells me you've had nightmares about your time in Fallujah before. All I'm asking right now is, have you had any more nightmares since we talked last week? Did they affect the camping trip?"

"None on the camping trip." He sighed, looked down at his shoes. "Bad one Saturday night."

"What happened Saturday?"

He stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the dark city. His shoulders slump, and he let out a sigh. "I came back a day early from our camping trip so I could go to John Russell's funeral. It was a closed-coffin, because…you know. Mrs. Russell thanked me for saving Tommy, Tommy thanked me…and I told them I was sorry I couldn't save John."

"Did Linda go with you?"

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, remembering the fight that morning.

" _Linda, I'll be fine. I appreciate the offer, but you don't need to come with me. I'm not going to break down if I go alone." Actually, he probably would—all the more reason to go alone._

" _Danny, you don't_ need _to go alone. I'm here, and I'm willing to go with you, to be there for you."_

_He'd shaken his head, his fingers trembling as he tried to tie his tie. "Linda, I need to do this—and I need to do it alone."_

_She'd come over, taken the tie from him, and kissed him, long and hard. "Cut the macho crap, Danny. Let me be there for you, please."_

" _You know I can't say 'no' to you when you do that, Linda," he'd groaned. "Go on, get ready."_

"I didn't want her to, but she can be very…persuasive." He let out a shaky breath, walked back to his chair, and slumped into it.

Doc smirked. "I see. Why did she want to go with you so badly?"

"So she could be there for me."

"How did the funeral make you feel?"

He bolted upright. "Dammit, Doc, can't you come up with another version of that question?"

Doc held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. What were you thinking during the funeral? Did you have any flashbacks, any memories?"

"Only every single military and police funeral I've been to in my life, plus re-living every second on that damn rooftop."

"That must have been rough. How did you handle those?"

"Linda held my hand, squeezed it when she could tell I was flashing back."

"So her presence there helped?" He shrugged, and Dr. Dawson asked gently, "Did the two of you go to the burial?"

He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he whispered. "Mrs. Russell and...Tommy asked me to; I hadn't wanted to, but we went. It was a military burial—taps and the flag and everything."

"I think it's a good thing that you went, Danny; hopefully it will help you find closure." He paused. "Did you cry?"

"I plead the fifth, doc."

The doc chuckled, shook his head. "This isn't a courtroom, Danny; this is a place where you actually heal if you 'incriminate' yourself. May I ask again: did you cry at John Russell's funeral?"

He shrugged, studied a coffee stain on the carpet. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it crying, but…"

"You got choked up?" Doc guessed and Danny shrugged. "It's okay, Danny. I'd be more worried if you were bottling it up and keeping it all inside until you explode." He paused. "What did you do when you got home?"

"I sat on the couch and held my wife."

"And did that help?"

"Yeah. She…she's the one I lean on."

"Does Linda know about your nightmares?"

"She knows I have them, yeah; 9 times out of 10 they wake her up, too. But she doesn't...know what they're about."

"Have you heard the saying: 'Shared joy is double joy, shared sorrow is half sorrow'?" He shook his head and Doc continued, "Well, I'm sure you can figure out what it means. Your homework for this week is—"

"Homework? Come on, Doc, I'm done with school."

"You do it well, I'll give you extra credit," Dawson said without missing a beat. "Here's your assignment: the next time you have a nightmare, talk to Linda. You don't have to go into all the details, just the bare outline. Tell her the hard moments, tell her you're angry, tell her you're frustrated, tell her you're sad. Let her be there for you, Danny."

He rose—his signal that the session was over—and Danny did as well. "Thanks, Doc. See you in a week."


	4. Chapter 4

It was after ten when he made it home. Linda was on the couch, and he sat down next to her, kissed her. "How was your day?"

"Same old, same old." She kissed him back. "How's Doc Dawson?"

"Same old hard-ass." He put his arm around her, and she nestled into his shoulder. "Gave me a homework assignment. I told him I didn't do well in school, but he said it was extra credit."

He couldn't keep from tensing up at the thought; and Linda must have felt it, for she wriggled out of his grasp, turned to face him, and took his hands in hers. "What is it, Danny?"

He closed his eyes, unable to look her in the eye as he told her this. "He wants me…next time I have a nightmare…he wants me to talk to you about it, not to shut you out like I've been doing." He pulled away from her, turned so he wasn't facing her anymore. "I just don't know…"

"Danny, you know I'll listen to whatever it is, I won't judge you."

"There's some stuff I can't tell you, babe. Some, because it's classified; other stuff…there are some things no one who hasn't been in combat needs to know about. I'm not saying you can't handle it; I'm saying…hell, I don't know what I'm saying." He swallowed hard, swiped at his eyes. "I never wanted to burden you with…all the crap I brought home from Fallujah with me."

"You wouldn't be burdening me, Danny; you'd be letting me help you bear that burden." She paused, and Danny flinched at the tears in her voice. "Please, Danny…let me help you."

He bit his lip. "I'll...I'll try, babe. It's late, let's go to bed."

* * *

His throat was sore, as if he'd been screaming. A firm hand rubbed his back. "Easy, Danny, it's okay, you're okay."

What was going on? He had just been on the rooftop with John Russell, yet at the same time trying to avoid a firefight in Fallujah—now he was at home, in bed, with his wife. "L…Linda?" he croaked.

"Right here, babe. It's all right, Danny. It was just a nightmare."

He shuddered, ran a hand over his face. His eyes were wet. "Dammit."

"Shhhh…it's okay, Danny." She reached across him, pressed a tissue into his hand. "Shhh, Danny …you're okay. I've got you, babe."

He scrubbed at his face with the tissue, then threw it in the general direction of the trashcan. "Sorry I woke you. What time is it?"

"A little after 2." She rubbed at his arm soothingly. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He tensed. "Not really. But Doc did tell me I should, dammit."

He threw the covers off and sat up, taking a shaky breath as Linda padded around from her side of the bed to sit next to him. She had brought the blanket with her, and she wrapped it around his shoulders tenderly. "It's okay, Danny. Take your time."

He leaned his head in his hands. He was shaking and he couldn't make it stop. "I've been having the same nightmare ever since John Russell…killed himself: I'm on the roof, pleading with him not to jump; he salutes me and then jumps, over and over again; and at the same time, somehow, I'm surrounded by the sights and sounds and smells of Fallujah: the bullets, the missiles…." The lump in his throat was choking him.

"I'm sorry, Danny. It wasn't your fault." She slipped her arm around his waist, held him gently.

"You've never talked about your second tour, Danny, but…you came back different: haunted, angry. What happened over there?"

He let out a shaky breath. He'd held this all in for so long…was it really okay to let her help him bear it now?

"They captured my squad, and held us prisoner for three days. Eight men, including our C.O., were killed in those three days; four more died in the hospital. I'm the only one who made it home alive."

"Three days, Danny…why didn't you…?"

"They interrogated us, Linda!" he interrupted roughly. "I didn't want to talk about it! I was trying to forget it happened, dammit!"

"'Interrogated' meaning they tortured…"

* * *

_He's in a hospital in some nameless town in Iraq, in a room with his best friend, Michael Jones. Last thing he'd heard, he and Michael were the only ones left._

_"Danny, what am I gonna tell my wife? They…they interrogated us—they, dammit, they tortured—"_

_He couldn't finish that sentence, for Danny had clamped his hand over his mouth. "Shut your trap, PFC Jones! We do not use that word here, do you understand me, PFC Jones?"_

" _Sir, yes, sir, Corporal Reagan!"_

* * *

"Don't ever say that word to me again, do you understand me?"

Hot tears were dripping on his hand, and he blinked. He was staring, not at the grizzled face of a fellow soldier, but at the beautiful, tear-stained face of his patient wife. His hand was clamped over her mouth like a vise.

He pulled away as quickly as if her mouth were on fire. "O God, Linda, I'm so sorry, babe, I'm so sorry. Forgive me, please. I didn't mean to do that to you. I'm so sorry. Are you okay, babe?"

She was shaking, and he reached for her shoulder, cursing under his breath when she flinched away. "I..I'm fine, Danny. But you have to talk to Dr. Dawson about that, and whatever the hell else happened in Fallujah."

He nodded. "I…I will. Where…where's my phone?"

"Not now, Danny; it's 2:30 a.m. You need to sleep." To his surprise, she put her arms around him, and he buried his face in her shoulder as his own tears mixed with hers.

* * *

Neither one of them got much sleep; and at 5 a.m., Danny dialed his C.O. "Hey, Sarge, I'm not going to make it in today."

"Reagan, if you've been hitting the bottle that hard…"

"It's not that, Sarge." He sighed. This was hard to say without making himself sound like a total head case. "I'm running on maybe three hours of sleep. The Russell case last week…stirred up some crap, and I need to deal with it before I do something stupid."

"Do I need to take your gun, Reagan?"

"No, sir."

"Good. I'll see you Tuesday. Take care of yourself, Reagan."

"Thanks, Sarge."

* * *

At 6 a.m. he typed a terse text to Dr. Dawson: " _Sorry to bother you this early, Doc, but I need to talk asap_."

The reply was almost instantaneous—Doc must be an early riser. " _I don't have any patients until 1 p.m. Can you come at 8?_ "

" _Sure. Linda's coming with._ "

" _I look forward to meeting her, and I'll see you both at 8._ "

He took a long, scalding hot shower, trying to wash the memories off; saw the boys off to school; choked down half of the breakfast Linda made him; and then headed out the door with his wife.

* * *

"What's going on, Danny?" Doc asked after introductions had been made.

"I need help, Doc. I hurt my wife last night. I had a nightmare, I opened up to her about it like you'd said. Then she asked me about Iraq. I told her…that they… interrogated us. She asked if that meant…" He took a shaky breath, tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, and flinched when a water bottle was pressed into his hand.

"Take your time, Danny. You're safe here," Doc said gently.

He loosened the cap, managed two swallows. "She asked if interrogation meant…torture. I had a flashback to…I was in the hospital after our men rescued us. I had to keep my buddy from saying that word out loud because I wasn't sure who the hell was listening, and I put my hand over his mouth—real rough, because it was life or death. I didn't know I was hurting Linda; I thought I was back there, and I was trying to keep PFC Jones from running his mouth!"

"What brought you back from the flashback?"

"Feeling her tears on my hand."

"Linda, how did you feel during this?"

"Scared. That this case had pushed Danny over the edge, that my husband wasn't going to be the same. Not that he's been the same since he came back from his second tour; but he's never been violent with me or the boys, even in the middle of a bad flashback." She put her hand on his arm, and he flinched. "You scared the crap out of yourself, too, Danny."

He nodded.

"Refresh my memory, Danny: what year did you return from your second tour in Fallujah?"

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but he couldn't. He shook his head.

Linda answered for him: "Early 2005."

"So, 9 years ago. Have you talked about that tour with anyone, apart from your mandatory debriefings and psych evals?"

He shook his head.

"I am trained in trauma therapy, Danny. If you want to work through this, I will help you—but you have to be willing."

Finally he could swallow. He took a sip of water. "I have to work though this, Doc; I can't risk hurting my family anymore."

"Danny, you need to do this for yourself first and foremost—otherwise your PTSD is going to eat you alive, and that will hurt your family."

Images of the bruised and battered face of MaryAnn Russell, the terrified face of Tommy on the ledge, and the haunted face of John Russell in the seconds before he took that irrevocable step, flashed before his eyes.

If he did that to Linda, to the boys… He didn't even want to think about that, and he shuddered. He looked up to meet Doc's eyes. "I need help, Doc."

"Good job, Danny." Dr. Dawson turned to Linda. "If you wouldn't mind, Linda, I'd like to have a one-on-one session with Danny."

She nodded, stood, and kissed him. "Are you okay with that, babe?" He nodded, and she stroked his hair. "I'm proud of you, Danny. Call me when you're ready for me to pick you up. I love you."

"Love you more," he whispered.

"Love you most," she replied with another kiss.

When she was gone, Doc took his time getting a cup of coffee, then sat down again. "Now tell me the details you left out when you told Linda about your second tour."


	5. Chapter 5

He stood up, walked over to the window, and stood staring out. "They captured my unit—all thirteen of us—and held us prisoner for three days. Somehow, another unit found us; otherwise we’d have been there longer. Eight of our men died in those three days; four more in the hospital. I'm the only one who made it home alive—and I flew home on a plane that carried the body of my closest friend."

"I'm so sorry, Danny."

"Why them and not me? Why did I survive, and they didn't?"

Doc sighed, and said slowly, "I can't answer that question, Danny. I wish I could, but I can't." He paused. "What aren't you telling me, Danny? What else happened during those three days?"

He whirled. "Isn't that enough, Doc? I tell you I was held prisoner for three days and you think I'm holding out on you?"

Doc locked eyes with him. "What else happened, Danny?"

"Dammit, Doc, you're too good at your job, you know that?" He stalked over to a chair—one where Doc couldn't see his face—and sank into it.

He stared at his shoes for a while, then said very quietly, "They…had captured thirteen little kids, and they tied us hand and foot, then forced us to watch as they…tortured the kids. All of us tried to fight out of our bonds to protect those kids, but they started killing—first one kid, then a Marine. Three the first day, three the second, two the third. The last kid and the last Marine were killed not twenty minutes before our guys stormed the camp to rescue us—and the five other kids who hadn't been killed yet."

Doc shifted his chair so he was facing Danny head-on. "I know you hate this question…but how do those memories make you feel?"

Danny bolted out of his chair, started to pace. "Dammit, Doc, how the hell do you think I feel? I feel angry, I feel guilty that I didn't fight harder, that I didn't do something to save those kids! I feel so damn guilty that I came home while those kids and those Marines didn't—and then I feel even more guilty because my not coming home would have destroyed Linda—not to mention the rest of my family!"

"Because you saw those kids get tortured and killed…is why you went rogue in the case of the rapist whose head you flushed down the toilet." At Danny's shocked look, Doc shrugged. "What? I do my research, Danny."

"Yeah. Actually, it was smack in the middle of that case that my dad asked me if I'd ever seen someone, said there was, quote 'No shame talking about what went on in Iraq,' unquote. I told him I'd get around to it."

"And that was, what…over three years ago?" He nodded, and Doc said, "Well, I'm glad you're here now talking about it, Danny. Better late than never." He rose, walked over to the coffeepot, and poured himself a cup. "Want a cup?" Danny shook his head and Doc continued, "Linda said you haven't been the same since that tour; what else happened?"

"Dammit, Doc, why the hell do you think there's more?! Being forced to watch while they tortured and killed little kids was worse than the…stuff…they did to us."

"Psychological torture often is, Danny. I can tell you're holding out on me...what did they do to you and your fellow Marines?"

"The usual interrogation techniques: sleep deprivation, food and water deprivation, not letting us relieve ourselves—and beating us when we couldn't hold it anymore. I still don't remember what information they wanted from us."

"You didn't deserve it, Danny."

"Are you sure about that, Doc, because I sure as hell did nothing to save those kids! I did absolutely f-g nothing!"

"Was there any rhyme or reason to which Marine they killed?"

"No."

"So, there's nothing you could have done, Danny. In fact, if you had tried to do anything, it wouldn't have saved the kids or any of your fellow Marines, it wouldn't have gotten you home any faster—it probably would have ended up with you dead."

Danny halted in his tracks and collapsed onto a chair. "Maybe I wanted to die, Doc! If I couldn't save those kids, what business do I have being alive?"

* * *

He had switched from past to present tense, and Alex Dawson felt every therapeutic bone in his body go on full alert. He stood up, dragged his chair over so close that Danny would have no choice but to make full eye contact, and leaned forward to lock eyes with the older man. "Danny, are you telling me that you want to die? I am not talking about nine years ago in Fallujah, Iraq; I am talking about now, at this moment, here in this room."

The detective shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Not gonna do that to Linda. Not like John Russell did."

He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Alex Dawson sighed.

After about five minutes, he shifted in his chair, cleared his throat. Danny didn't move—didn't seem to realize he wasn't alone.

"Danny," he said gently.

There was no response.

He waited a few more minutes.

"Danny!"

Still, the detective didn't move, and Alex sighed. There was one sure-fire way to get the man to snap out of whatever world he was trapped in. "Detective Reagan!"

Danny bolted upright.

* * *

Judging by his tone, Doc had been trying to get his attention for a while.

He blinked. His face was wet and he swiped at his eyes. Dammit. This was why he'd stuffed the memories and the anger and the shame deep down after returning Stateside.

"S…sorry, Doc. I…I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

"I don't think you _are_ fine, Danny; I think you're in more emotional pain than you've allowed yourself to feel for nine years."

"O, go to hell, Doc."

"You know you are, Danny, and the only way to heal is to face it head-on." He paused. "I'd like to give you an analogy to consider. Have you ever been shot?"

"Come on, Doc, of course I have!"

"Let's say you get shot in the arm. What would happen if you just ignore the wound—maybe you slap a Band-Aid on it, but you don't let a surgeon take the bullet out?"

He shrugged. "It'll get infected."

"And if you continue to ignore it?"

"The infection will spread and I could lose my arm or die from blood poisoning."

"Correct. Your memories from Fallujah are like a bullet in your arm. You've ignored the bullet, you've slapped a Band-Aid on it, and you've gone about your life. Your arm hurts all the time—it's gotten a little more painful each day, every day, for the past nine years. But you've just put some more Band-Aids on it, rubbed it, told yourself it'll stop hurting if you ignore it. This case has torn off the Band-Aid, and you can see that the wound's infected. If you don't admit that your arm's infected and let me operate to remove the bullet…it won't heal, just as it hasn't healed over the last nine years…and, like you said, you could lose your arm or die from septicemia. What are you gonna do about the bullet, Danny?"

"Well, damn, Doc, when you put it that way…" He sighed, scrubbed his face with his hands. "But admitting it's infected…"

He trailed off, and Doc finished for him: "Means acknowledging the pain, _facing_ the pain, not continuing to ignore it. Tell me, Danny, why would it be so terrible to face the memories and the pain from Fallujah?"

"Because it's pain, dammit!"

"But ignoring it won't get the bullet out of your arm, Danny. You took the first step by asking for help, and the second step by coming here after what happened last night. You've removed the bandage and admitted the wound's infected. But the bullet still needs to be dug out—which means facing these memories, slowly, one piece at a time, over the next few months. Any time the memories get too overwhelming, we can take a break. Are you ready to face this?"

He took a shaky breath. "I…I can't…" He hated how pathetic he sounded, but he couldn't help it. He'd gotten through the debriefings and the psych evals by beating around the bush, telling the experts what they wanted to hear; and while Doc was right that that approach wouldn't help now, he still wished that it would all just disappear.

"I know," Doc said softly. "It'll hurt like hell, and I can't give you any anesthesia. But tell me you'll let me dig out the bullet. You don't deserve to live in pain, Danny."

He took a sharp breath at Doc's words. "I..."

He nodded once.

"Good job, Danny. You did good today." He rose and walked over to his desk.

Danny fumbled in his pocket, pulled his phone out, and pressed speed-dial 1.

"Hey, Danny."

He thought he'd gotten himself under control, but her voice brought a lump to his throat. If he hadn't made it home, he would have lost all this. He still could, if he didn't face these memories, these damned… _feelings_. "L…Linda?"

"I'm on my way, Danny. What's wrong?"

"I told…Doc…everything…" he sniffed.

"O, Danny… Hang in there, babe. I'll be there in ten minutes. I love you, Danny Reagan."

"L…love you more…"

"Love you most."

He hung up, and jumped when a firm hand came to rest on his shoulder. Doc didn't say anything; he just stood there for several minutes, and then slipped out the door.

* * *

When she got there, Dr. Dawson was out in his waiting room, and he rose when she walked in. "He asked me to give him a minute; I haven’t been out here for long.”

"Thank you, Dr. Dawson." She hesitated. "In almost 18 years of marriage, I have never seen Danny this upset, except for when his mother died and when Joe was killed. And the last time I've even seen him close to tears was when he told me about his buddy, Bobby LaRue, who was killed by a sniper. Instead, he gets angry—but so rarely at me and the kids, that's why I chewed him out for snapping at Jack, 'cause he never does that! I can tell when it's been a bad day, and I know he loses his temper all the time at work; but he stuffs it all inside when he walks through our door."

Dr. Dawson sighed. "Danny uses anger as a defense mechanism—it's easier to be angry at criminals and half-throttle them, than to admit that every case, every victim he can't save, breaks his heart a bit more. He feels things very deeply, as I'm sure you know; but he buries the pain. This is something he's buried for nine years. Now that's he's finally acknowledging the pain, he can find real healing."

He nodded to the door and Linda walked over to it. Her hand was on the knob when she turned. "How is he, Doc, really?"

"He's struggling with survivor's guilt—the feeling that he didn't deserve to come home, guilt that he made it home, while the other men in his unit didn't. There are things that happened over there that he blames himself for—things he'll never talk about outside of this building. Don't push him to talk, but listen when he does, try to read between the lines of what he says. Be there for him, because...without you and your boys, he wouldn't be sitting in my office right now."

"Are you saying...?"

"I'm saying you were his reason to come home alive. He's home, he's alive, and he's safe—focus on those positives, Linda."

She nodded to him, then opened the door, walked in, and closed it firmly behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

Linda frowned when she rolled over into cold sheets and not her warm husband. She sat up quickly. Danny wasn't in bed.

"Danny?" she called, worried. Two weeks had passed since Corporal Russell's suicide, and their nights had a new pattern. They'd go to bed; she'd wake Danny up a few hours later; sometimes he would talk about it, more often than not he would go downstairs to the punching bag; but he was always there in bed. And if he'd just gone to the bathroom or to get a drink of water, he always left something on the pillow so she wouldn't freak out that he was gone.

The sheets were cold, which meant he'd been up for a while; and there was nothing on his pillow.

She pulled on her robe and started looking for him.

He wasn't in the bedroom or the bathroom or any other room upstairs; and she padded downstairs, sighing in relief when she saw him sitting in the living room. "Danny?" she called again.

He didn't answer, and she stepped closer, gasping when she saw—in the dim light from the street light—that he was holding his off-duty weapon. "Danny!"

He didn't move, and she ran back upstairs, grabbed her cell-phone with trembling fingers, and called Frank.

On the second ring a sleepy voice said, "Hello?"

"Frank, it's Linda. Something's wrong with Danny; I think he's having a flashback. He's got his gun in his hands, Frank! I don't know if it's loaded or not!"

"I'll be there in thirty minutes, lights and sirens. Call Dr. Dawson, tell him my detail and I will pick him up on the way."

"I don't know…"

"His number is probably in Danny's phone."

"Okay. Hurry, Frank, please!"

"I will, Linda. Just breathe. And call Dawson."

He hung up, and she walked to her husband's side of the bed, picked up Danny's phone. _Thank God I know his password_ she thought, and scrolled down through his contacts.

A tired voice answered on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Dr. Dawson, this is Linda Reagan. Danny's having a flashback, he's not responding to me, and he's got his off-duty gun. I don't know if it's loaded or not. Frank should be calling you in a minute; he's on his way to pick you up and bring you here."

She heard a long, low whistle from the psychologist. "Okay. Stay calm. Stay out of Danny's line of sight. Talk to him, tell him he's safe, that whatever he's seeing isn't real. Don't touch him, Linda. Go unlock the front door for your father-in-law."

Downstairs, she backed her way to the front door. She kept her eyes on Danny, talking to him quietly. "Hey, Danny, you're okay, you're safe. The boys and I are safe, too. Whatever you're seeing or hearing—isn't real. You're having a flashback, babe."

He didn't move, didn't blink—if she hadn't seen his chest moving, she would have thought he wasn't breathing. He just sat there, holding the gun in a steady hand. It was pointed at the window, and she hoped fervently that no one walked by outside.

A tiny voice in her ear startled her, and she jumped. She was still holding the phone in her ear. "H…hello? Sorry about that, Doc."

"It's okay, Linda. Call Frank, tell him I'll drive myself over; he doesn't need to pick me up. What's your address?"

She rattled it off, hearing a car beep, and then a door close. "Thank you, Linda. Remember not to touch him, but keep talking to him. I'll be there as soon as I can."

She nodded. "Th…thanks, Doc.

She put the phone in her pocket and resumed talking to Danny as she unlocked the door.

She wasn't sure what she was saying; she was babbling; and she blinked back sudden tears.

Danny had seemed tense when they went to bed; he'd told her he was tired of the nightmares; but this wasn't just a nightmare. This was…this was a full-blown flashback. Danny probably didn't even realize where he was, or what he'd done.

O God, the boys! What if they woke up and came downstairs and startled their dad?

She tiptoed up the stairs to check on them. They were sleeping soundly. _Please God, don't let them wake up,_ she prayed.

She went back downstairs, called Frank to give him Doc's message, and put the coffee on, simply for the sake of something to do.

She went back into the living room. Danny was still sitting there, frozen, his eyes wide, the gun unwaveringly pointed at the window. She crept up as close to him as she dared. "You're safe, Danny. You're here, at home, with me and the boys. Everything's fine. You can put the gun down."

He didn't move. It was worse than talking to a statue.

She paced, prayed, poured a cup of coffee. She took a sip, then poured it down the drain when she realized she'd made it too strong.

She must have walked up and down the stairs fifteen times before she heard sirens blaring. Then they cut off abruptly.

She ran to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the cold night.

Frank's car pulled up. He got out of the car without even waiting for his detail, and Henry followed him.

Another car screeched to a halt at the curb, and a thin, tall man—it must be Doc Dawson—got out.

Then Henry's arms were around her and she was sobbing into his coat.

* * *

Alex Dawson pushed himself in front of the Commissioner's security detail. "I can talk Danny down, Commissioner. I know I can."

"I'm his father," Frank Reagan said firmly.

A member of the Commissioner's security detail shook his head. "Sir, you really should let me go in there first; my job is to make sure Detective Reagan doesn't shoot you."

"He won't shoot me!" Frank exploded.

Alex pushed past them and into the house. Danny still didn't move, and he walked behind the couch. He motioned the others to stay back, then in one swift motion, he punched Danny hard in the arm.

As he had hoped, the gun fell to the ground.

Frank stepped forward to kick it away, and Alex walked to the other couch, sat down squarely in Danny's line of sight.

Danny blinked, looked at him, his eyes glassy. "Doc?" he whispered. "Why are you here? Where…" He looked around the room. "I was just in Fallujah…why am I…?"

"Easy, Danny, it's okay," Alex said in a level voice, maintaining eye contact with the detective. "You're safe. Linda and the boys are safe. Do you know where you are?"

"My…my house. Whatthehell happened? What did I do? Why's everybody here?"

"What do you remember, Danny?"

He blinked. "I was…I thought I was…back in Fallujah…I must've…had a flashback." He looked up at his dad. "O God, why do you have my gun, Dad? Who took it out of the safe…did I…?"

"You didn't use it," the Commissioner said gravely. "However, you're on modified duty for thirty days—pending full clearance from both Doc Dawson _and_ the department psychologist, _and_ my personal approval. I need your badge, Danny."

"Why…why are you putting me on modified?"

"Because your head's not on straight, son. If this happened while you were on duty, and you ended up shooting someone...an innocent bystander...you'd never forgive yourself. I can't let you back in the field until I know your PTSD is under control. Now, where are your badge and your service weapon?"

"My weapon's in my locker at the precinct, badge is on the bedside table."

Frank headed for the stairs. "I'll get it. Henry's with the boys."

Danny buried his face in his hands. "I don't remember unlocking the safe…if I'd used the gun…o God, Linda…"

She sat down next to him, and Alex rose and stepped out of the room.

* * *

Linda wrapped her arms around him, and he buried his face in her shoulder. "I can't even… If I'd used the gun, and shot…" he trailed off, unable to say the words aloud. _If I'd shot you or the boys…_ He shuddered at the thought.

"But you didn't, Danny. You didn't. I'm safe and so are the boys."

He pulled away from her grasp as his father and grandfather came back down the stairs. "Boys are sound asleep," Henry said quietly.

"I…I need to check on them," Linda said, and pulled him close for a minute, then rose and headed for the stairs.

"I'll make some hot cocoa," Pop said, and steered his dad into the kitchen.

Doc came back in the room. "I'd like to have a session with you now, while everything's still fresh in your memory."

He shrugged. "What do you wanna know, Doc?"

"First of all, I want _you_ to know that whatever you tell me is confidential, even though we're sitting in your living room and not my office. Understood?" He nodded, and Doc continued, "Walk me through the night, from the time you went to bed."

He set the mug down and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Went to bed earlier than normal, about 10. I was dead on my feet. Chatted with Linda a bit. I did tell her I was worried I'd have another nightmare. I couldn't fall asleep for a long time."

"And when you did fall asleep?"

He opened his mouth but stopped as Pop walked back into the room, carrying two mugs. "Here we have freshly made hot cocoa. Danny, Dr. Dawson."

"Thanks, Pop." He took the mug, sipped it. It was just the right temperature.

He waited until his grandfather was back in the kitchen before he said, "I was back in Fallujah… under heavy fire…trying to get to safety. I don't know how I wasn't thrashing around and didn't wake Linda earlier."

"And you have no recollection of getting out of bed, getting your safe from its hiding place, unlocking it, and taking out your gun?"

He slammed the mug down, cursing as it splashed hot cocoa everywhere. "Dammit, Doc, do you think I'd be sitting here if I did? No, I don't remember!"

He rose, stalked into the kitchen, and glared at the concerned faces of his father and grandfather. Then he grabbed a towel and stalked back into the living room to clean up the mess.

Doc set his own mug down, held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. I had to ask, Danny. What were you seeing or feeling right before you came back from the flashback—sitting in your living room?"

"I…I don't remember."

"Danny, you were holding a loaded gun. Even though you weren't aware of what you were doing, your subconscious thought you were in danger. I think you do remember."

He leaned his head on his hands, stared at the floor. "Have I ever told you you're a hard-ass?"

"Only ten times in the past two weeks. Stop stalling, Danny. What was going through your head right before I knocked the gun out of your hand? Where did you think you were?"

"I told you, Doc: back in Fallujah!"

"And what was going on?"

"I was…" He trailed off. This made absolutely no sense, just like the nightmare that had been on repeat since John Russell's death. "I was dodging bullets, and yet somehow…Linda and the boys were in danger. I was waiting for just the right moment to take out the bastard who wanted to hurt them." He sighed. "The boys were…the same age as they are now, even though they were tiny when I was in Iraq. Why the hell do my memories get all messed up with current events?"

"You're afraid of losing your family, Danny. You've already lost so many people…your grandmother, your mother, your brother Joe, every single member of your unit. It makes sense that, deep down, you're terrified something's going to take your family."

"Why now, Doc? I've been in danger before, but Linda and the boys haven't been."

"Because you met John Russell. He didn't see a reason to live because, for all intents and purposes, he'd lost his family. You identified with him, Danny."

"The hell I did, Doc. The boys aren't scared of me; Linda doesn't want a divorce. How the hell did I identify with him?"

"Danny, you…Danny, you know that there are memories that you haven't faced yet, things you don't _want_ to face…the full story of your time in Fallujah, Joe's murder…memories you're burying. You're afraid that if you let them come to the surface, you'll end up like John."

"You think I'm suicidal?"

"I think you're a lot closer to the edge than any of us realized, Danny."

He was too exhausted to yell at Doc and tell him he was wrong. "How am I gonna keep from ending up like John?"

"Talking about Iraq. What are your hours on modified?"

"0830 until 1700, with thirty minutes for lunch. Five days a week."

"Well, then, I'd like to meet with you twice a week—after work, after you've gone home for dinner and had some time with your family…say, around 8 p.m., Mondays and Thursdays? Does that sound good?"

He shook his head. "That's a lot of driving, from the precinct back to Staten Island, then back to your office. How 'bout 5:30 or 6, right after work?"

"That'll work." Doc rose, and Danny did as well.

"Thanks, Doc. I'll see you Thursday."

"You're welcome. Call me if you need to before then, okay?"

He nodded. "Copy that."

Doc let himself out, and Danny headed for the kitchen. "Could we…talk, maybe, just for a minute?"

"I'm listening, Danny," his dad said quietly, and Pop rose.

"I'll go check on Linda and the boys."

He sank into a chair, leaned his head in his hands. "Am I going crazy, Dad?"

"The person best qualified to answer that just walked out the front door, Danny. However, for what it's worth, no, I don't think you are. I think you need to work through some things, but you're not crazy, Danny."

He nodded. "Yeah, okay. Thanks. You and Pop should head home, go to bed."

"Danny, you're the one who wanted to talk. So talk."

He cursed under his breath. He needed to get out of this one, and fast. "I just wanted to hear you tell me I'm not crazy. It's okay. I need to go check on Linda and the boys."

He turned and headed for the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

He was at his desk by 8 a.m.

The day dragged by.

Baez dropped off a late lunch for him, then went back to a scene.

"Two more hours to go," Danny muttered as he threw the sandwich in the trash, "and then twenty-nine more days."

"Danny?" a familiar voice said; and he turned to see his kid brother looking down at him.

He rose, dusted his hands off, slapped Jamie on the back. "Whaddaya doin' here, kid?"

"We need to talk."

He sighed. "Come on," and led the way to a quiet hallway. "What's going on?"

"I should be asking you that," Jamie shot back. "I'm at a scene, waiting for detectives, expecting my brother, the best detective I know; and I get your partner and Detective O'Brien? Why weren't you on the scene, Danny? Baez wouldn't tell me anything."

Danny kicked the wall. "I'm on modified."

"And I'm only hearing about this now because…?"

"Because I don't need the whole world knowing my business, Harvard! I asked Dad to keep it under wraps. Besides, it hasn't even been 18 hours!"

"Wait… _Dad's_ the one who put you on modified? What-the-hell happened, Danny?"

"Keep it down, Jamie!" He sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck. "The case a few weeks ago… with Corporal Russell…brought up a lot of…crap…I'd been avoiding. I've been having nightmares; nothing major until…this morning."

He took a shaky breath. "I had a…nightmare or something stupid, and I got my off-duty weapon out, was pointing it at…never mind. Linda must've called Dad; he put me on modified until my head's on straight again." He turned, and headed back to his desk.

"I'm sorry, Danny. Can I help?"

"Nah, I'm getting help, I'm good," he said, and walked back to his desk.

"I wasn't offering to be your shrink; I was offering to let you blow off steam, shoot some hoops, throw some darts. Although, judging by the contents of your trashcan, maybe I should take you out for lunch."

"That was yesterday's sandwich; I left it out on my desk overnight," Danny lied easily.

Jamie bent down, picked up the sandwich, and unwrapped it. "Lettuce isn't wilted, bread's not soggy; this is today's sandwich. Why aren't you eating?"

"Good try, but you're not ready for your gold shield just yet, Harvard."

"Let's grab a bite, my treat."

"Nope. I eat now, I won't be hungry for supper, and then Linda will not be happy."

His phone rang. "Reagan." He listened for a minute. "Yes, sir, I understand. I'll be right down," he said, and hung up. "Sorry, kid, I have to go. Evidently, I didn't sign enough papers this morning. I need to have another chat with my union rep, and sign my name twenty more times. I'll catch up with you later."

* * *

When his brother had left, Jamie pulled out his cell-phone, shot off a quick text to his sister-in-law. " _Dropped by the station to see why Danny wasn't at my scene. Found out about him being on modified. He claims he ate lunch, but there was a fresh sandwich in his trashcan. I think he's lost weight just since Sunday_."

She wrote back quickly—must've been expecting to hear from Danny. " _Thanks, Jamie_."

* * *

Dinner was roast chicken—normally his favorite meal, and one he knew Linda had spent hours making—but he couldn't force more than a few bites down. When the boys were done, they cleared their plates and went upstairs to finish their homework.

Linda stood up, pulled him to his feet, and led him to the couch. "I know you love my roast chicken. What's eating you, Danny?"

"Just not hungry."

"Danny…you left without breakfast this morning, and I'm guessing you didn't eat lunch, either."

"Did Jamie call you? That little…"

"He's worried about you." She hesitated. "You've lost weight, Danny."

"Maybe. Nothing I couldn't spare." He let out a shaky breath. "I just…keep thinking about this morning, how badly that could have ended. Stomach's tied in knots."

Linda pulled him in for a kiss. "But it didn't end badly, Danny. We're all safe."

He nodded, pulled away as she asked gently, "How was work?"

"Boring. Meetings, evals, and paperwork to make my modified status official. The department shrink is ticked that I'll be doing my sessions with Doc Dawson, but…" He hesitated. "If I did my sessions with the other guy, it'd be a waste of time; I'd be giving him the run-around, telling him what he wanted to hear, not the truth."

"Like you did both times you came back from Iraq," she said, and he flinched. "Danny, I didn't mean it…"

"No, you…you're right. It's different this time, Linda. I…I trust Doc. I'm gonna be honest with him, I won't hide anything, I won't try to B.S. him."

He shivered suddenly. "What is it, Danny?"

"Something I told Baez when we were on the John Russell case. She asked how long I'd been in Iraq, and I said, 'Too long for my own good.'"

"But you're home now, babe."

"I know, it's just…I thought I put Iraq behind me, but it followed me home." _Just like Afghanistan followed John Russell home_ , he thought, and shook his head. "Dammit."

He pulled her close, kissed her. "Enough talking. Whaddaya say once the boys are in bed, we fool around a little?"

She kissed him. "How 'bout right now?"

"Linda…" He stood up, pulling her with him, and led her to their room.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of suicidal thoughts.**

**If you're drowning, please reach out!**

**Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255.**

**You matter and your life is worth living**.

* * *

He was sifting through the first box of evidence for Baez's case when his phone rang. "How's modified duty treating you?" his dad asked.

He sighed. "Fine, boring. 10 hours in, and I'm already bored stiff. I'm fine…"

"Don't," his dad interrupted sharply. "Not after I saw you yesterday. I know more than you imagine about waking up and wondering…if it would be easier to just end it all. And I want you to promise me that you'll call me, or Linda, or Jamie, or even Gormley. Promise me, Danny."

He couldn't speak.

He swallowed.

"Yeah," he whispered roughly, and hung up.

* * *

Sid Gormley had seen many things in his years on the job; but Detective Daniel Reagan not chafing at the bit while on modified, was a new sight.

Also new to him was the ashen face of said Detective as he hung up his cell-phone. "Reagan!"

Danny turned to face him, and Sid sighed. His best detective looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks; and there was an empty look in his eyes that told Sid just why the younger man had failed his fitness-for-duty eval the day before.

"My office, Reagan. Now!"

Danny rose and walked toward him woodenly. "Sarge…"

"You look like hell, Reagan. Shut the blinds, take a minute or five. I don't wanna make you go home on sick leave when you do more on modified than most of my guys do on full-duty."

* * *

Danny closed the blinds, then leaned back against the door, his heart racing.

" _Wondering if it would be easier…_ " How had his dad known? The thought had been keeping him up at night, gnawing at him, stealing his appetite.

He took a turn from the door to the window and back, then pulled his phone out of his pocket.

His hands were shaking as he found Doc's number in his contacts.

The younger man answered on the second ring. "What's wrong, Danny?"

"My dad…just called…and asked…well, he didn't ask, but he made me promise…that if things got real bad…I'd call someone. Before I did anything stupid. And…until he said it…I didn't realize…not that it's his fault, it's not, but…I didn't realize…just how much…I've been thinking about it."

"Danny, where are you right now? Are you safe?"

"I'm at the precinct…Sarge gave me his office."

"Have a seat."

He froze, and Doc said gently, "I know you're pacing, Danny. Sit down, please."

He stumbled over to his sergeant's chair, sat down. "O…okay. I'm sitting down."

"Thank you." He heard papers shuffling, the rattle of car keys. "We've danced around this topic, and I was hoping to come to it a little more gently in tonight's session; but now I have to ask. Have you ever thought about killing yourself?"

"Dammit, Doc! Do you have to use those words? No euphemisms, no beating around the bush?"

"Not when you were trapped in a flashback and holding a loaded gun less than forty-eight hours ago. Answer the question, please."

He let out a shaky, angry sigh. "Crossed…my mind a few times after I got back from…Iraq, but never seriously."

"What about more recently, Danny? Since the case with John Russell?"

He let out a shaky breath. "I'm still having that same damn nightmare, and during the days…" He cleared his throat to hide the break in his voice. "Every damn memory from Iraq…they're eating me alive, Doc. It's getting harder and harder…I'm not sleeping because every time I close my eyes I flash back to Iraq, I'm not hungry; I've been…a lot angrier than I normally am even at my angriest. Some days…a lot of days…I wonder if…if it would be easier…to end it all, rather than…rather than keep living with… with everything."

He cleared his throat. "But I know suicide's a mortal sin. Although stuff like PTSD can lessen your guilt. And when I think about my family—Linda, and Jack, and Sean, and Dad, and Pops, and Erin, and Jamie—I could never do that to them."

"Danny, I'm going to ask you a very serious question, and I need you to think about it before you reply. Take a few minutes. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

Doc asked very, very gently, "Do you have a suicide plan?"

Images of John Russell flashed through his mind, and he shuddered. But he did what Doc had asked, and waited several minutes before answering. "No, I don't. It's…" He clamped his mouth shut.

"Finish that sentence, Danny."

"Even if I did have a plan, it's not like I have my gun anymore."

"Danny, that sounds to me like you do have a plan. Is Officer Baez there?"

"No, she…she's out following a lead for her case."

"Can you ask your sergeant to come to the phone?"

He nodded numbly. "Okay." He stood up, walked to the door. Gormley wasn't there, and he cursed under his breath. He knew where Doc was going with this, he knew Doc didn't want him to be alone, and that was probably a really good idea; but…. "I…I don't know where Sarge went, Doc."

He heard the beep of a car unlocking, and an engine starting. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Put me on speaker, and use your sergeant's desk-phone to call Linda. Stay on the phone with her till I get there. Will you do that for me?"

He nodded. "O…okay."

He dialed Linda's cell with shaking hands.

She answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, babe, it's me."

"What's wrong, Danny?"

"I…Doc asked me to call you." He took a shaky breath. "When you saw me yesterday morning…did…did you…did you think I was going to turn the gun…on myself?"

She caught her breath with a sob, and he flinched. "I…I didn't know what to think, Danny. I'm no stranger to your flashbacks and nightmares; but…I've never seen you that…lost. And holding your gun…"

"I won't lie to you, babe. The thought's crossed my mind—too often, lately."

There was a rattle of keys. "I'm coming down there, Danny. Keep talking to Doc, okay?"

"No, babe…please. Doc's on his way already. He had me call you so I could talk to you while he's driving here. If you and Doc both come, everyone will know something's up…I'd rather not… Just talk to me, babe…tell me…tell me what you're doing right now, what you're cooking for dinner."

As he listened to his wife throw in a load of laundry and talk about the spaghetti sauce she was planning to make, he counted his pulse. It was way too fast, and he cursed.

There was a knock on the door. "Reagan!" It was Gormley.

"Sarge is here, babe. I need to go."

"I love you, Danny."

"Love you…more," he whispered brokenly.

"Love you most." Her own voice broke. "I love you, Danny Reagan. And you better come home to me tonight. Promise me you'll come home safe."

The lump in his throat was choking him. "I…" His mouth was moving but he couldn't force the words out. He hadn't thought about what it would do to her and the boys if he didn't come home safe.

That was new. For years, getting home safe to her and the boys had been the first thing he thought about when he woke up, the first thing he thought about when he went out on a call, and the last thing he thought about when he got home at night.

Now, he couldn't remember when he'd last thought about it. "I promise…"

He hung up with her, and picked his cell-phone up. "Sarge is here, Doc."

"Danny, you know that everything you tell me is confidential—unless I think you're a threat to yourself or to others. And right now, it sounds to me like you're a threat to yourself. Will you let me talk to your sergeant?"

He sighed, and rose to his feet. At least Sarge wouldn't go blabbing it all over the precinct…. "Yeah, sure."

He walked over to the door, opened it. "Sarge…Doc Dawson wants to talk to you."

His boss took the phone, and Danny sank back into the chair, leaned his head on his hand.

He slipped his left hand into his pocket, pulled out the medal his mom had given him the day he graduated from the academy. St. Michael, patron saint of cops.

For the first time in a long time, a prayer—one memorized as a six-year-old at the knee of Mary Margaret Reagan—was going through his head, and it wasn't making him angry.

 _Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle_ …

He murmured the words under his breath, trying to slow his breathing down. _Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen_.

"Reagan!"

He raised his head. Sarge had dragged a chair over and was looking at him. From his tone, he'd been trying to get his attention for a while.

"Sorry, Sarge."

"Don't you start apologizing to me, Reagan. Why didn't you come to me, why didn't you let me know things had gotten this bad? When the Commissioner called to inform me you were on modified, he never…"

"I…didn't realize how bad things were until…until he called me and…asked me…made me promise to call someone…"

"Aw, hell, Reagan."

There was a knock on the door, and Sarge opened it. There were a few murmured words, and then Sarge had left and Doc was sitting in a chair, facing him.

"Hey, Danny."

He blinked. "Thanks for coming."

"Thank you for reaching out. Tell me more about what your dad said to you, why that rattled you so much."

He tried to take a breath, but his chest felt tight and his heart was pounding and he was breathing as if he'd just swum 500 meters in 10 seconds.

"Take a breather, Danny." Doc rose, pulled a water bottle out of his coat pocket, and handed it to him.

His hands were shaking so much he couldn't open it, and Doc took it from him, loosened the cap, and handed it back. "Nice and slow, Danny."

He gulped it down greedily, only to find he was gasping for air again.

He flinched at the grip of a warm hand on his arm. "You need to slow your breathing down, Danny. Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose…one, two, three, four…out through your mouth…one, two, three four, five." He let out a shaky breath, and the doc let go of his arm. "That's it, there you go. You're safe, Danny."

He took the cap from Doc, forced his fumbling fingers to put it back on the bottle.

The bottle slipped from his hand, and he flinched when it hit the ground with a dull thud. "I…I'm drowning, Doc."

"I know you are, Danny. I'm not gonna let you drown. But in order to pull you to shore, I need your help. Can you do that?"

He laughed bitterly. "I don't know; probably not. I couldn't help John Russell. Hell, I offered to help, but it didn't do any good. How ironic that now I'm where he was."

"But you're not, Danny. Right now, right here, you're safe. I'm here, and I'm not gonna let you drown. Linda sure as hell isn't gonna let you drown. Jack and Sean need you, Danny. We will not let you drown, but you have to help us."

"Help? How the hell can I help?" He hated how helpless he sounded, but he was floundering in ten feet of water and he didn't know where the shore was.

"You're going to have to really open up. And when you think you can't, you lean on your family. I think you should call Linda back, have her come down here. And while we wait for her, you can call your dad. Okay?"


	9. Chapter 9

He froze at Doc's words. Linda was probably already on her way, despite what he'd told her; but calling his dad…he couldn't.

"Why, Doc? Why bother calling them? I…I hurt my family. I scared Jack, I scared Linda…I could have…I could have killed them the other night!"

"But you didn't, Danny. I think that even in a flashback, you would have recognized your wife and your boys. We can treat your PTSD, we can find ways—continuing to talk about it, perhaps some medication—to help you fight the symptoms, so you can be there 100% for your family."

He shook his head, and Doc said urgently, "Danny, over the past few weeks, you have told me repeatedly that you don't want to hurt your family, that you know it would have destroyed them if you hadn't come back from Fallujah. If _you_ give up, if you let the depression and the PTSD win…won't that hurt your family…permanently?"

He rubbed at the back of his neck, and was trying to think of an answer…any answer other than the truth…when his Sergeant's desk-phone rang.

The Caller ID read "Commissioner Reagan."

"It's my dad," he sighed, but didn't move. He really did not want to talk to his dad right now.

"Answer it, Danny. You need to know you're not alone."

He sighed angrily, then picked up the receiver. "Sergeant Gormley's office, Detective Reagan speaking."

"Danny, O, thank God. Linda just called me in a panic."

His dad himself sounded more panicked than he'd ever heard him, and Danny swallowed hard. "Sorry, I…I didn't mean to scare her. I…I'm not doing too good right now, Dad."

"I know, son, and I'm on my way. Detective Baker is going to pick Linda up and bring her to the precinct. You hang in there, Danny, you hear me?"

"I…I hear you, dad."

"Promise me, Danny."

"I…I'm trying."

"There's no _try_ about this, Danny. I will not bury another son. Promise me."

He flinched at the tone in his dad's voice. He hadn't heard that tone since he was in high school. "I…I promise I'll hang in there."

"Thank you, Danny." His dad ended the call, and Danny hung up the phone.

"What was it your dad made you promise?" Doc asked.

"To hang in there 'till he gets here."

"What did he say right before that? You looked like he'd hit you."

"He…he said he wouldn't bury another son."

His head was pounding, and his whole body ached with exhaustion. He leaned back in the chair, squeezed his eyes shut.

Memories…Joe the last day they'd seen him alive…the funeral…the day they had taken down the Blue Templar…ran through his mind.

Doc was talking. "…but all I know about your brother is that he was killed in the line of duty. Tell me about Joe."

He bolted upright at that. "He was killed while he was undercover trying to take down a group of dirty cops. My dad, Jamie, and I found out...about two years after his death. We hunted their sorry @$$e$ down. The scumbag who killed Joe…confessed, and then killed himself. I took the rest of their shields." He let out a shaky breath, swallowed hard. "I miss him."

"I know. How did you feel when you found out the truth behind his death?"

"Angry."

All Joe had ever wanted to be was a cop, and it was what had killed him. All he himself wanted to be was a cop, and what if this…what if he lost that?

"Doc, if I get put on sick leave—so I can't work—I'll go batty. I have to keep working, even if it's on modified! What if I never get my gun and shield back?"

"Danny, look at me, please."

He stared at the floor for several minutes, but he could feel Doc's eyes boring a hole in him; and, finally, he gave up and looked up at the younger man. Doc's eyes were warm, compassionate.

"I get that you're worried about never getting your gun and shield back—because being a cop has defined who you are for years. Tell me why you think your dad put you on modified."

"Because…I got my loaded gun out of the safe in the middle of a flashback."

"If you'd gotten drunk while on duty and carrying your loaded gun, would he have done the same thing?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. What you're saying is that your dad took away your gun so that you couldn't hurt yourself or someone else by having access to a loaded gun in an unstable frame of mind—because being drunk is an unstable frame of mind, and so is having a post-traumatic stress flashback. Am I right so far?"

He sighed. "Dammit, Doc, yes, you're right!"

"If you keep being open with me—talking through your problems, working through them—my report to Dr. Forsythe will read that you are fit for duty. I am confident that at the end of your time on modified, you will get your gun and shield back."

He let out a shaky breath. "Thanks." The panic was rising again. "But what am I gonna do until then, Doc? I've got 28 days left on modified, and I'll be stuck at home…I don't think even you will convince my dad to keep me on modified, not like this."

"Danny, we'll figure this out, second by second, minute by minute. If you'd like, I will sit down with you, Linda, and whoever else you want; and we'll come up with a battle plan for the next few weeks—a battle plan to keep you safe and keep you near your family, so you know you're not alone. It might be a good idea to also consider medication for depression, just to get you through this time. For right now, though, you and I are just gonna sit here, and chat, and keep breathing. Can you do that?"

He nodded, but he was still trying to breathe underwater. "Doc…I still…I can't…"

Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "You can get through this, Danny. I promise you, I'm not gonna let you drown. Take a breath with me, okay? In…and out."

He took a shaky, gasping breath. "O…okay."

After a minute, he realized what Doc had said. "Medication for…depression?"

"Yes, Danny. I can't prescribe it, but I think it would be helpful—to get you through this low period right now."

He was trying to find the words to tell Doc he didn't need medication, that he wouldn't be able to work if he was on medication, when there was a knock at the door.

Doc rose, and Danny shivered. "It's probably your father. I'll let you two have some time, maybe try to stall Linda when she gets here." He opened the door. "Commissioner Reagan."

There were a few murmured words, and then Doc left.


	10. Chapter 10

Every Marine and cop instinct in him was screaming at him to stand up, to come to attention; but he couldn't find the strength or the breath; and he sat there, frozen, as his dad wrapped strong arms around him, lifting him to his feet. "Danny, son…"

He thought he was shaking, but maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was some other guy. It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore.

"I'm sorry, Danny. I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when you got back from Iraq, I'm sorry I didn't try harder to get you to get help. I'm sorry I haven't tried to talk to you more in the past few weeks."

His father's arms and words were strangling him, and he pulled away, sat back down. "Pops would say you're 'over the legal limit for "sorry's",' Dad. I'm not dead…" He clamped his mouth shut before the "yet" slipped out.

His dad flinched, but covered it by quickly sitting down. "What happened, Danny?"

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I don't _know_ what happened, Dad! The case brought back memories, and then the nightmares started up again; and all I can think about is John Russell, and Iraq, and John again, and crap from Iraq that I thought I'd locked away. I can't sleep, I can't eat… I can't live like this, Dad… If you and Doc hadn't come, I could have killed Linda and my boys yesterday! They don't…they don't need someone like me in their life, Dad. I'm tired, so damn tired."

"Danny, do you remember what you told me right before we left for the camping trip?"

He shook his head.

"You told me that you edited your DD5 so Tommy wouldn't know that his dad had committed suicide. You wanted Tommy to know that his dad's death was, quote, 'Just an accident, that his old man didn't want to kill himself, it was just part of a big mistake,' unquote. You remember that, Danny?"

He nodded numbly.

"I never want to have to tell my grandsons that their dad isn't coming home." His dad locked eyes with him. "Danny, are you planning to kill yourself?"

"I…I don't know. I've thought about it. A lot, lately. Doc asked me if I had a plan, but I told him it's not like I have my gun anymore…"

"That sounds to me like you do have a plan, son."

"Funny, that's exactly what Doc said."

"No one's laughing, Danny. I need you to promise me something, son."

"What?"

"Promise me that you'll fight this—that you'll talk with Dawson, do whatever he wants you to do—even if that includes hospitalization or medication—to beat these demons. Promise me, Danny."

He flinched. Did he want to be the one to make his father bury another son? Doc had said that he would hurt his family if he ended it all, that Jack and Sean needed him…

"I…I don't know if…" _If I can make that promise_ , he thought.

"Danny, all I'm asking…like I asked you earlier, call someone. Talk to any of us. Just…reach out before you do something you can't undo. Please, son, promise me that."

He could do that. He'd already promised that, and that sounded easy. "I…I promise, Dad."

"Thank you, Danny. What do you need me to do right now to keep you safe from yourself?"

He took a shaky breath. "I don't know, Dad. I know the protocol; I know I should probably be admitted; but…please, no hospitals!"

"On two conditions, Danny. First, Dr. Dawson has to agree. Secondly, I'd like you to bring Linda and the boys over, and spend a few days with me and Pops. I need to know you're safe. Linda needs to know you're safe—she was terrified when she called me."

"I didn't mean to scare her."

* * *

The door burst open and Linda flew at him. "Danny!" He flinched as she threw her arms around him.

She was shaking, but there were no tears. That was bad.

He swallowed hard, tried to say something to her, but there was nothing left in him to give, no words of comfort, not even platitudes. He had nothing.

His dad slipped out of the room as Linda let go of him and sat down. "What happened, Danny? Why did Frank call you and make you promise to call someone if…? Why did you ask me if I thought…?" She choked on the words, and he leaned his head in his hands.

"I'm having a really hard time, babe. I didn't realize how hard until… I didn't realize how much I was thinking about…ending it all…until dad called and made me make that promise. I can't stop seeing John Russell, and my buddies from Iraq, over and over in my head. I can't do this anymore, babe."

She moved her chair over as close to him as she could, took his hands in hers, and leaned her forehead on his. "Maybe you can't do it alone, babe, but you're not alone, okay? I'm here, and I will do whatever you need me to do, because I will not lose you to your demons, Danny. Whatever you need, I'll be behind you 100%."

She kissed him, and he clung to her. She was his life-preserver in a raging ocean.

He felt tears slip down his face, and he swiped them away, pulled away from Linda. "I need help, Linda. I know I've already hurt you, but I could have…I could have killed you or the boys when I had my gun yesterday. I'm sorry, babe."

"Danny…we need you. I need you, Jack needs you, Sean needs you. Tell me you understand that. Please, babe."

He swallowed hard, nodded. "I…I hear you."

She reached for him again, turned his face so he was looking her in the eye. "You hear me, but do you _understand_ what I'm saying, Danny? Tell me you understand how much it would destroy the boys, how much it would destroy me, if you killed yourself."

He nodded shakily. "I…I don't want to hurt you and the boys, and if…if I killed myself…I know that would hurt you."

Her grip on his shoulders tightened, and she gave him a little shake. "Promise me that you will not kill yourself, Danny. Promise me."

"I…I promise. But I need help."

"I know, Danny. What did Doc say?"

"He…he wants to sit down with you and me and maybe dad or Sarge, and come up with a 'game plan.' And Dad asked if we wanted to come over for a few days."

"That sounds like a really good idea, Danny."

She stood up, walked behind him, and rubbed his back gently.

He took a shaky breath, feeling some of the tension leave him. He wasn't alone, his family wasn't gonna let him go through this alone. Maybe he could get through this…

After a few minutes, he asked, "Where'd my dad go, and Doc?"

"They're out in the hallway."

"Can you ask Doc to come in here?"

"Sure. I'll be right back."

They were back in less than a minute.

"How you holding up, Danny?" Doc asked—his trademark phrase.

"Not good, but a little better. I think. What am I gonna do, Doc? I can't work…not like this."

"Well, you still have twenty-eight days on modified. Do you want me to get your dad"

He nodded. "Sure."

* * *

An hour later, Gormley, the department psychologist (a man named Forsythe, whom Danny disliked immensely), and his dad had left; and Doc was going over the "game plan" one final time.

Danny, Linda, and the boys would spend the afternoon packing up clothes, and move in to Frank's for the next couple of days. That way, there'd always be someone home even when Linda was at work.

Danny would take the rest of the day and Friday off, and come in on Monday for his second official day on modified duty. He'd tried to talk his father and Doc into letting him come back Friday, but they were firm on this one: he needed the time off.

Doc had told him what to do if he found himself panicking or gasping for breath (evidently that had been a panic attack earlier); he'd told Linda how to help Danny through a bad flashback; and plans were in motion to get him started on an anti-depressant.

"It'll take about a month for you to start to notice any effects." Doc Dawson said, and rose. "Is there anything else you need from me?" He shook his head, and Doc went on, "We'll cancel our session tonight, but call me if you need to talk before Monday. And remember to reach out…to Linda, me, your dad, anyone…if you feel like you're drowning. None of us wants you to drown, Danny."

"Copy that," he whispered, and stood to grip the younger man's hand. "Thanks for everything, Doc."


	11. Chapter 11

"Come on, Jack!" he called up the stairs. "We're going to be late!"

They'd told Frank they'd be there for dinner, and they should have left five minutes ago.

There was a thud, and then a backpack came flying out the door.

"I'm not going!"

He walked up the stairs, leaned in the open door. "Yes, you are, Jack. You and Sean love going over to Pop's, this is just like a mini-family vacation. What's going on?"

"This is all my fault and I'm not going! If I hadn't made you talk about Iraq for my presentation, all this wouldn't have happened!"

"All this…all what?"

"You not having your gun and Mom being scared and us going to Grandpa's house!"

Jack stumbled towards Danny. He wrapped him in a hug, feeling the boy shaking. "Shhh, it's okay, kiddo, it's okay."

After a few minutes, Jack pulled away, walked over to his bed and sat down.

Danny sat down next to him. "None of this is your fault, kiddo. I don't have my gun because I got in trouble at work."

"But I heard Grandpa ask you for your gun, and Mom was crying, and…"

Danny frowned. "You were awake, Jack?"

"Yeah. I didn't let Pops know, 'cause I didn't want to get in trouble."

He let out a shaky breath, rubbed at the back of his neck. "You're not in trouble, Jack. The only person who's in trouble right now is me. I did something…stupid to make your Grandpa think that it wasn't safe for me to have my gun." He ruffled his boy's hair. "But everything's gonna be okay. You don't need to worry, kid."

Jack burst into tears, arms flailing at Danny's chest. "Everything's not okay! Grandpa took your gun away because he thought you were going to kill yourself!"

Danny pulled his boy into a hug, stilling his thrashing arms. "Jack…why…what makes you think that?"

"I know what guns do!" the thirteen-year-old sobbed.

Danny felt his heart clench. He rubbed at his boy's back, then pulled away, gently lifted Jack's chin so he could look him straight in the eye. "I promise you, Jack, I'm not going to kill myself. I'm getting help. You don't need to worry about me, kiddo. I love you and your brother and your mom more than anything in the world, and I'm not gonna let anything take me away from you. I promise."

He hoped he wasn't lying to his son.

Jack hiccupped and buried his face in Danny's chest again.

After several minutes, his sobs slowed and he sat up, wiped his eyes. "You promise?" he whispered.

"Yeah, kiddo, I promise. Go rescue your backpack and get in the car with your brother. We'll talk more later, if you need to, okay?"

He grabbed his own bag, walked downstairs to find Linda waiting for him, the crock-pot of spaghetti sauce by her feet. "What's wrong with Jack? I could hear him screaming…"

"I screwed up, Linda," he whispered. "Now I've got our thirteen-year-old terrified that I'm going to kill myself."

"Danny…" his wife said, her voice breaking. "Why?"

"He woke up yesterday, heard you crying and Dad asking me for my gun."

"What did you tell him?"

"Promised him I wouldn't."

She kissed him. "We need you, Danny. Our boys need you. I need you."

He nodded, picked up the crockpot. "I know."

* * *

The clock read 2 a.m. when he woke up. His heart was racing, but he couldn't remember the details of the nightmare.

"Danny?" Linda asked groggily.

"Shhh. I'm just going to get some water. Dad's probably awake; I might chat with him a bit. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, you can come check on me."

He kissed her, shrugged on his bathrobe, and slipped out of the room.

He could hear muffled cries, and he padded down the hallway to the bedroom the boys shared. The cries were getting louder, and he pushed the door open. Sean was sound asleep, but Jack was tossing in his bed, hands reaching up to grab something. "No, Daddy, please! Come back, Daddy!"

Danny's heart broke. Jack hadn't called him 'Daddy' in a while… He slipped into the room, padded over to the bed, and sat down. "Jack, kiddo, you're safe. Daddy's safe, too. I'm right here, kiddo."

His boy bolted upright, his head hitting Danny's chin. "Oww!" he said, then pulled away. "D…Daddy?" he whispered.

"Yeah, it's me, kiddo. In the flesh. I'm right here."

Jack tackled him in a bear-hug, and Danny wrapped his arms around him, ran a hand down his back. He could feel him sobbing. "Bad dream, kiddo?"

Jack hiccupped. "Yeah. You…you were…dead. You…you'd used your gun…to…to kill yourself!"

"It was just a nightmare, kiddo, just a bad, bad nightmare. I'm safe. I'm right here. See? Pinch me."

Jack pinched him and he yelped, then glanced worriedly at his younger son.

Sean still slept on…the innocent sleep of youth…and Danny let out a sigh. "I promise you, kiddo, I'm not going to kill myself. I'm seeing a doctor, I'm talking to Mom and Grandpa; my doctor's going to get me some medication. I'm not going anywhere, kiddo."

He chatted with his boy for a few more minutes, then sat with him while he fought sleep.

* * *

When Jack was finally asleep again, he padded his way back to their bedroom.

He pushed the door open to see Linda pulling her bathrobe on. "Was just going to come looking for you," she said.

He sat down on the bed, pulled her into his arms. "We need to talk, babe."

She tensed up, and he rubbed her shoulders. "What is it? What's wrong, Danny?"

"Jack had a nightmare that…that I'd killed myself. He…he's scared, Linda. I got him calmed down and he fell asleep again; but…"

"That's…I'd say that's a normal reaction, Danny. Check in with him in the morning before school; if he's still upset, we'll keep him home and I'll call the pediatrician, get a referral for an emergency meeting with a child therapist."

"Great. Now two Reagans have to see shrinks, all because I can't handle a few flashbacks?"

Linda pulled away from him, turned so she was facing him. "Don't talk like that, Danny. I am _proud as hell_ of you for talking to Doc Dawson, for reaching out to him. It's not your fault that Jack heard us talking yesterday. But he did—and if he's terrified that you're gonna kill yourself, then we need to get him some help."

He nodded. "Okay. I'm going to go chat with dad for a bit; he's still working the floors down there."

* * *

"It's the middle of the night, Danny. You should be asleep," his dad said as he came down the stairs.

He shrugged. "I'd rather be awake than trapped in another nightmare."

"Come join me. I made chamomile tea."

He walked into the living room. "Why are _you_ awake, dad?"

"Old age, memories, the usual. What about you?"

He sat down, picked up the teapot and poured himself a cup. "Not sure. Woke up right before a nightmare, instead of during."

"Linda know where you are?"

"Yeah."

"How you doing, Danny?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Better than earlier. I…thanks for calling me, for checking up on me."

"Of course, son."

There were footsteps on the stairs. "It's almost 3 a.m., Francis. Hello, Danny."

"Hi, Pops," they chorused.

"Both of you should be asleep."

Danny shrugged as his grandfather walked into the room and sat down in his chair.

"Chamomile tea? How long have you two been awake?" the family patriarch asked

"About an hour."

"Same, give or take twenty minutes," Danny said around a yawn.

"What's on your mind, Danny?"

"Jack," Danny sighed. "He basically threw a temper tantrum about coming over. I guess yesterday he heard Dad ask me for my gun. He thinks us staying here and me not having my gun is all his fault because he asked me about Iraq. To make it worse, he…he asked me if I was going to kill myself. I promised him I wouldn't, but I don't think he believed me. I just got him back to sleep after a nightmare. Linda's gonna call his doctor in the morning."

He leaned his head in his hands. "I…I'm having flashbacks and starting an anti-depressant; my kid's terrified I'm going to kill myself…my family's falling apart, and I don't know what to do."

"One small step at a time," his dad said. "Talk to Jack's doctor, talk to Dawson…baby steps. Trying to imagine all the possibilities will only stress you out. And while you take those baby steps, you lean on us; that's why you're staying here for a few days, while you figure all this out. It'll be okay, Danny." His voice broke. "I got you back safely after Iraq; I'm not gonna let you slip away now."

The pain in his dad's voice rattled him, and he mumbled something about being too tired to see straight, and went back upstairs to lie next to Linda and stare at the ceiling.

* * *

He moved some things around and went to the counseling session with Linda and the boys in the morning. Then he had his own appointment with his physician; and at 1:47 p.m. he came out of the doctor's office, go in his car, locked the door, and pulled out his phone.

Doc answered on the fifth ring. "Hey, Danny, I'm between patients now, but I have a few minutes. How'd the visit with your physician go?"

"Fine. He gave me Zoloft. That's not why I'm calling, Doc." He sighed. This was hard.

"I'm listening, Danny. Where are you right now? I hear traffic."

"I'm in my car in the parking-lot of the doctor's office. Car's turned off, doors are locked," he sighed.

"Thank you for that reassurance. What's going on, Danny?"

"Jack…my thirteen-year-old…threw a temper tantrum yesterday over going to Pops' house. Turns out he was awake the other night; heard my dad ask me for my gun; and he thinks me being on modified duty is all his fault—because he asked me about Iraq. Last night, he had a nightmare that I had killed myself. Linda got us an emergency consult with a child shrink this morning, and he gave us some techniques to use. Boys are staying home today."

He heard a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry to hear that, Danny. Keep reassuring Jack that you're not going anywhere, let him stick close to you if that makes him feel better. Call me tonight, and we'll chat more, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks, Doc," he said, and hung up.


	12. Chapter 12

Jack followed him around like a puppy all weekend, and Danny noticed that the dark thoughts seemed to bother him less when he wasn't alone. But late Saturday afternoon, Linda went to the grocery; Jack was playing chess with Pops; Sean was in his room playing video games; and his dad had gone back to the office to deal with some crisis—leaving Danny alone.

Memories from Fallujah had been haunting him all day; and now, with no distractions, they swam to the forefront of his memory.

He stalked into the kitchen, opened the fridge. Nothing in there that looked appealing.

His dad's words from a year or so ago—" _If you find yourself on your third beer with the TV on and the door closed, put it down, turn it off, and go find Linda and the kids"_ —swam through his mind.

He didn't feel like zoning out to the TV; he couldn't mix alcohol with the anti-depressant.

He wandered up to his old room. The punching bag still hung in the corner. It had always been a good outlet for him before; maybe it would help now.

He pulled his long-sleeved shirt off, threw it on the floor, and took a swing at the bag.

The faces of John Russell, Bobby LaRue, the men in his unit swam through his mind. He swung, harder and harder.

His knuckles were throbbing, but the pain of the memories was easing.

He kept hitting the bag.

* * *

"Danny! Danny!"

He blinked. He was in bed…no, he was lying on something hard.

He looked around.

He was lying on the floor of his old room. His arms hurt.

Linda was sitting next to him, shaking him. "Danny, wake up!"

He sat up, blinking when he saw his knuckles were raw and bleeding. "Dammit. Hit…the punching bag…too long."

"Why weren't you wearing gloves?"

He shrugged. "Didn't think about it."

"I'll be right back. Don't move."

She came back with the first-aid kit, and he winced as she began cleaning his hands. "What happened, Danny?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Dad had to go back to 1PP; Pops was playing chess with Jack. I started thinking, and I was…on the verge of a flashback. Couldn't drink a beer; didn't feel like TV; but I knew I needed to distract myself. Was only going to hit the bag a few times. Guess I wore myself out."

She finished bandaging his knuckles, and he slowly stood up. Damn, he was dizzy.

Linda wrapped her arms around him. "Don't you ever do that to me again, Danny! I thought…"

Her voice broke, and he said, roughly, "You thought I'd tried to kill myself."

She flinched, and he pulled away to wrap her in his arms. "I…I…I didn't… I was trying to distract myself from doing something stupid."

"Doc told you to reach out. I didn't hear him say to beat the crap out of a punching-bag."

"I didn't know _who_ to reach out to, Linda! Jack was with Pops…I'd only have scared Jack more if I'd gone to talk to Pops; I didn't want to keep bothering Doc…"

"Danny, you could have called me, Doc, or Frank; any one of us would have talked to you 'till we got you grounded again. It doesn't matter that we were busy doing other things. Instead, you decide to punish yourself with the punching bag; and I come home to…to…you lying on the floor of your old room—asleep or passed out, I didn't know which—with your hands all bloody. Scared the _crap_ out of me."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and cursed as he felt tears stinging his eyes. Stupid anti-depressant. "I didn't mean to scare you. I guess I just…lost track of time. I'm so sorry," he said again, and held her close.

* * *

He managed to ease his dad's and grandfather's worries with a few words; the boys were almost as easy; and, thankful for the cold weather, he kept his thick leather gloves on all during Mass the next day.

He couldn't eat with the gloves on; so he walked into the dining room with a silent prayer that nobody would give him too much of a hard time.

Linda had barely finished saying grace before Erin asked worriedly, "What happened to your hands, Danny?"

He shrugged, cursing his family's powers of observation. "Work-related injury."

"I thought you were riding a desk—for real, this time," Jamie said, and Danny cursed.

"Boys, take your plates and go into the kitchen."

"So you can talk about stuff we're not supposed to hear?" Sean asked.

"That's exactly right, kiddo. Go on."

Erin glanced at Nikki, who stood up. "Come on."

When the kids had left, Danny pushed his chair away from the table. This conversation wasn't going to help his appetite any.

"I had a…flashback yesterday, took my anger out on the punching bag."

"But why are you on modified?"

Danny glanced at his dad, who shrugged.

He let out a shaky, angry sigh, and flinched when Linda slipped her arm around him, rubbed at his back. "I had...another, really bad flashback Wednesday morning, took my off-duty weapon—my _loaded_ off-duty weapon—out of the safe. I was this close to using it—and not on a bad guy."

He could see from his sister's face that she didn't understand what he was saying.

He glanced at his grandfather. If the man didn't know already, he didn't want to be the one to give him another heart attack. "Pops…" he said hesitantly.

"I know, Danny," the elderly man said.

"Know what?" Erin exploded. "What does everyone else at this table already know that I don't?"

He took a shaky breath, let it out, and stood up. He walked over to stand behind his sister's chair. It would be a lot easier to say the words if she weren't looking him in the face.

He put his bandaged hands on her shoulders. "The case with Corporal Russell…stirred up a lot of…memories from Iraq. I haven't been sleeping or eating. I…"

He cleared his throat. Saying these words out loud with his grandfather, his father, his wife, his sister and brother sitting there, listening…he couldn't sugar-coat, couldn't use the euphemisms he'd cursed Doc for not using.

"I…was _this close_ …to turning the gun on myself because…"

Erin pushed her chair back from the table, knocking Danny back. He staggered—stupid pills were making him dizzy—caught himself on the chair as his little sister threw her arms around him, sobbing.

"Shhh, Erin, it's okay. I'm right here."

She pulled away from him and slugged him in the chest, fists flailing in much the same way Jack's had on Thursday. "No, it's not okay, Danny! You thought for half a second that this family would be better off without you, that I could handle losing another brother? Dammit, how selfish can you be, Danny?"

She stormed out of the room through the kitchen—so much for keeping the kids ignorant of their conversation—and Danny stood there.

"I'll go talk to her," his dad said, and rose. "Excuse me."

"Sorry." Danny glanced at his grandfather. "I couldn't lie to her."

The family patriarch didn't say anything, and Danny retrieved his plate from the table. "Excuse me," he said, and headed into the kitchen to put his un-eaten dinner in the fridge.

* * *

"She got you pretty good," Linda said as they sat on the edge of the bed that night.

He nodded, and winced. Between Jack's fists Thursday, his own attack on the punching bag Saturday, and now Erin's fury, he was feeling twenty years older.

He'd seen the bruises earlier; his little sister could sure throw a punch. "Pain's good. Keeps me grounded, here."

"Hurting yourself…isn't going to make the memories go away, Danny."

"You sound like Doc."

She kissed him. "Well, I'm not Doc. I'm your wife, and I hate to see you in so much pain." She picked up the ice pack she'd snagged out of the freezer earlier. "Put this on for ten minutes."

He obligingly lay down and let her arrange the towel-covered ice pack on his bruised chest.

"Doc's gonna be pissed at me tomorrow."

"So's your partner. Does Baez even know what's going on?"

He shrugged again, and winced. Needed to not do that for about a week. "She knows I'm on modified. Doesn't know why. I'll have to tell her tomorrow."

"Okay. Right now, though, just rest. You need it, Danny." She kissed him, ran a gentle hand along the bruises. "Love you."

"Love you more," he whispered, and tried to sit up to kiss her; but she pushed him down gently. "Dammit!" he cursed at the pain.

"Sorry, babe. Does it hurt when you breathe?"

"No, just when I…move."

"Good. You probably don't have any broken ribs; bruised maybe—Erin does not hit like a girl, not when she's ticked. Stay still now, Danny." She kissed him again. "Love you."

"Love you most," he whispered, and used every ounce of Marine training to make himself drift off to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

"You look like hell, Reagan," his partner said when he dragged himself into the precinct at 08:21. Jamie had dropped him off.

"Thanks." He headed for the hallway, gestured with his head that she should follow him.

"What happened, Danny? Did somebody rough you up?"

He shook his head, leaned back against the wall. "No. You know I'm on modified, and that I was out sick Thursday and Friday. Sarge tell you why?"

"No. What's going on, Danny?"

Tersely, he told her the events of the past five days.

"Danny, why didn't you call me? I would have…"

"I didn't realize how bad things were until…they got really bad, and then you were out on a case. It's okay."

"Are you sure you should be here?"

He nodded, wincing. "I don't want to drag out my time on modified any longer than I have to. Please tell me you have surveillance videos or cold cases or something to keep me busy."

"Can…you use your hands?" she asked, gesturing at the bandages. Linda had re-wrapped them that morning; but bending his knuckles still hurt like hell.

"Yeah, I'll manage."

"In that case…" She turned and walked back to her desk. "Six hours of surveillance videos. Here's what we're looking for…"

* * *

The hours dragged by; he managed half of the Chinese take-out Baez got him for lunch; ate the rest for dinner; and at 1730, he kissed Linda goodbye and knocked on the door to Doc's office. It opened almost immediately.

"Detective Reagan, how was…what happened to your hands?"

He shrugged, wincing when that pulled on his ribs. "Had a fight with the punching bag Saturday afternoon. It won."

"And you didn't wear gloves?"

He caught his breath as he sat down. "Forgot."

"Why do I have trouble believing that?" He shrugged, and Doc went on, "Why did you feel the need to hurt yourself, Danny?"

"Trying to not have a flashback."

"And what about my advice to call someone?"

"Everyone was busy."

"I wasn't. I told you to call me anytime."

"Didn't want to bother you."

"You are not a bother, Danny. Next time, _call me_."

He nodded. "Okay."

"Promise me, Danny. Next time you feel like you're about to have a flashback or a panic attack, and you're alone, and you start to think of hurting yourself: call me."

"I…I promise."

"Thank you. Who bandaged your hands?"

"Linda. I guess I wore myself out, fell asleep or passed out or something on the floor. She found me there, woke me up. I really scared her, because she thought I'd…"

He couldn't say the words out loud. Dang, if he had just called Doc on Saturday, then he wouldn't be telling him all this right now…

"She thought you'd what, Danny?"

"She thought I'd…tried to…kill myself, slit my wrists or something," he whispered.

"Did you?"

He tensed at that, shifted in his chair. A stabbing pain shot through his ribs, and he caught his breath with a _hiss_. He needed to sit still before Doc noticed.

"Danny, were you trying to kill yourself?"

"Dammit, no!" he yelled. The pain in his ribs took his breath away. He pressed his hands to his side, waited for the black spots to stop dancing.

When the room looked normal and he could breathe again, he said, quietly, "I was just…trying to keep from having…a flashback."

"I told you how to ground yourself to keep from having a flashback. Did any of the techniques I told you involve hurting yourself?"

He shook his head, glad when _that_ didn't pull on his ribs…

A hand was on his arm, and he flinched. He was losing it if he hadn't noticed Doc get up and walk the few steps to his chair. "What happened to your ribs?"

Damn the man's powers of observation. "How…?"

"You're breathing shallowly, and wincing when you take a deep breath or move a certain way—all classic signs of bruised—or broken—ribs. If you've been at your dad's house all weekend, how'd you get beaten up, Danny?"

"My oldest son, and my little sister." Doc's eyebrows went up, and he explained, "Jack… figured out the real reason Dad had taken my gun; he was upset, and he lashed out. And yesterday, at family dinner…Erin realized something was going on, and…I told her, and she pummeled me."

"Ouch. That had to have hurt. You sure nothing's broken?"

He nodded wearily. "Linda checked me over thoroughly. Just badly bruised. I'll live," he sighed.

"Do you want to?"

He frowned. Damn pain was making him fuzzy. "Do I want to what?"

"You just said 'I'll live.' Do you want to live, Danny?"

He froze. He'd walked right into that one. "Doc…I…not now…please!" He hated how pathetic he sounded, but he really wasn't ready to talk about that right now…not yet.

"Okay, we'll come back to that later." Doc stood up. "Want some hot cocoa?"

"Sure. Thanks." He'd dodged that bullet.

The younger man handed him his cup, then sat down. "I'm sure Jack didn't mean to hurt you; kids sometimes lash out like that; they don't know their own strength. Why do you think Erin reacted the way she did?"

"She was scared."

"Probably. What was she scared of, Danny?"

He knew exactly what his little sister had been scared of, but saying it out loud…

"What did you say to her, right before she hit you?"

He took a careful, if shaky, breath, then let it out. "I told her…that I had almost…turned the gun on myself; and she just…laid into me."

"What was she scared of, Danny?"

"Dammit, Doc, how would I know?"

"I think you do know. Did _she_ say anything before or after lashing out?"

His shoulders slumped. "Yeah. She was pissed that I thought the family would be better off without me, pissed that I thought she could handle losing another brother, and royally pissed that I would be so 'selfish' as to end my own pain and make theirs worse."

"Ouch, Danny. I'm sorry. She's wrong, you know."

He frowned, glanced at Doc, who locked eyes with him. "Suicide is not selfish; it's a response to pain that you think you have no other way out of. You were in crisis mode Wednesday and Thursday… you weren't thinking straight. I want you to talk to Erin about this later this week, because she needs to know that."

Doc finished his cocoa. "Based on what Erin said to you, what was she scared of?"

He stared at the ground. "Of…losing me."

He took a sip of hot chocolate as Doc said, "In the past five days, four members of your family have told you they can't fathom life without you. What does that tell you?"

"I don't know, Doc."

"Come on, Danny, you're a smart man. Stop being so stubborn. Your wife, your dad, your oldest son, and your little sister, have all—in one way or another—pleaded with you, begged you, to stay alive. What does that tell you?"

"That…that…they want me to live."

"Good job." Doc leaned forward to lock eyes with him. "Back to my earlier question. I want you to be selfish for a minute—think about yourself, not how your answer affects your family; I'll tell you why in a bit."

Doc's eyes were boring holes into his. "Do you want to live, Danny?"

He closed his eyes. How had he gotten here? Damn Doc's drowning analogy, but John Russell's suicide had pushed him under, into the waves of memories he'd been trying to forget. Now, it was everything else on top of that…the nightmares, the flashbacks, the guilt, the memories…that had made him ready to stop fighting the waves.

The pain in his dad's voice, the fear in Jack's eyes, the fury in Erin's…but Doc had said to not to think about them right now.

Could he honestly tell Doc that he didn't want to live, that he wanted to end it all?

Doc was speaking, his words sounding as if they came from underwater. "Did you hear me, Danny? Tell me: yes or no, do you want to live?"

He had to take a sip of his cocoa before he could get any words out. "Y…yes," he whispered.

"Good. I'm glad to hear that, Danny."

"Doc, I just…I don't know how to. I shoved everything down, and now it's exploding in my face and I can't…I don't…"

"Danny, you remember the battle plan we made Friday? Talk to your family, come to your therapy sessions, call me, take your meds. Speaking of the Zoloft, how's it treating you?"

"Nauseous, dizzy, and can't sleep. Linda read all the paperwork and said these are common side-effects."

"I didn't see your car in the parking-lot; did someone drop you off?"

"Yeah, Linda, on her way to night shift. Erin'll pick me up; she's working late; tough case."

"Why didn't you drive, Danny?"

"Dammit, Doc, I just told you the pills were making me dizzy! Why do you think?"

"I'm trying to get _you_ to think here. Would it have been dangerous for you to drive while you're dizzy and still adjusting to this new med?"

"Yeah."

"If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have driven anyway. Am I right?" He nodded, and Doc went on, "But you decided not to drive. Tell me about that decision, Danny."

He sighed angrily. "Linda made me promise not to, but why the hell do you have to analyze every single detail, Doc?"

Doc shrugged. "Occupational hazard, Danny. That's a good enough reason." He glanced at his watch. "One more question, and then I'll let you call Erin; you've worked hard tonight. How's Jack?"

"He's…doing better. He followed me around all weekend; asked me to sit with him 'til he fell asleep. Hasn't had any nightmares since that one early Friday morning."

"How'd that make you feel, Danny, knowing that your son was terrified for your safety?"

"Angry."

"It wasn't your fault, Danny."

"How the hell is it not my fault?!"

"You didn't choose to have a flashback, did you?"

"Well, no…"

"I doubt Jack made a conscious decision to listen in on your conversation; the fact that he overheard isn't really anyone's fault, Danny. What did the child therapist suggest to help Jack?"

"Suggested I talk with him, let him stick close to me all weekend—which I did. As far as school today, he said to talk to Jack's teachers and the nurse; tell them to have the nurse call me so I could talk to Jack if he started to panic."

"Did he call you today?"

"Yeah, once."

"Did that seem to help?"

"I think so. He sounded calmer when he got off the phone."

"Good. That reassurance, hearing your voice even though he can't see you right then, will go a long way to helping him. He _will_ get through this, Danny. Kids are resilient; give him a week or two, and he'll be his usual happy self."

Doc rose. "You did good, Danny. You said Linda's working a night-shift?"

He nodded.

"Try to get some sleep, okay? Don't lie awake thinking. Call me if you need to."

"Copy that," he whispered, and rose to grip the younger man's hand. "Thanks, Doc. See you Thursday."


	14. Chapter 14

He was glad it was dark when he got in Erin's car. He didn't want to see the pity in her eyes while they talked.

"Hey, Danny. Are you okay?" she asked softly. "I didn't hurt you too badly, did I?"

"Bruised ribs. I'll live," he said, and winced at the memory of Doc's all-too-recent probing on that subject.

"I'm sorry, Danny. But you really scared me last night."

"I know. I'm sorry." He cleared his throat. "Doc wanted me…about what you said last night…Doc wanted me to make sure you knew that…suicide's not selfish. He said…for most people, all they're trying to do is escape from pain. I'm…trying to hang in there. I really am."

"You better hang in there," she said, her voice thick with tears.

"I'm trying. I've promised Linda and Dad that…I'm not going anywhere, that I'll call someone if I need to, that I'll take my meds and go to therapy…"

His kid sister sighed, said slowly, "I'm not mocking you, Danny, but…the brother I know won't acknowledge he has feelings, much less talk about them; scoffs at therapy, and likes the hard stuff too much to take meds. What happened? How did…none of us notice you were in so much pain?"

He wanted to snap at her, but Doc was right, he was using anger to hide his pain, so he said quietly, "Because I didn't want any of you to notice. Dawson's the guy Gormley sent me to last year for anger management. Turns out, Corporal Russell had been seeing him for post-traumatic stress. I called Dawson to get some help on the case; and then..."

He swallowed hard. "After Corporal Russell…killed himself…I called Doc. I…I was in shock, Erin. This wasn't my first suicide; but it was…the first where…I realized that…that could have been me on that ledge. Even now, nine years after Iraq."

"Danny!" his sister said in a broken whisper.

"I'd…been a mess since the case started. And I told Doc I needed help."

He flinched when a gentle hand came to rest on his arm. "I'm proud of you, Danny."

"Thanks," he whispered.

"The case was three weeks ago, Danny…how did you go from flashbacks and nightmares to thinking about killing yourself?"

"I don't know, Erin! Had a bad flashback Wednesday morning; I thought I'd failed to protect Linda and the boys, and…I almost…" He swallowed hard. He didn't think his little sister needed to hear him say those words again. "Dad made me promise to call someone if things got too bad. That's when I realized just how close I was…"

She was crying now, and he cursed. "Hey, Erin. Look at me. Look at me." She finally did, and he patted her cheek gently. "I'm right here, okay? I'm still alive, I'm trying to…stay that way."

Her sobs slowed, and she swiped at her eyes. "You better stay alive, Danny. I can't lose another brother." Her breath hitched. "Linda didn't go into details about why you can't drive…"

"Meds are making me dizzy; it'll probably be a couple weeks before that goes away."

"I didn't help by bruising up your ribs, did I?"

He shrugged his shoulders, then caught his breath at the shooting pain that small movement sent through his ribs and arms. "Well…not really." He cleared his throat. "We good, Erin? I'd like to go back to Dad's now."

"Yeah, Danny, as long as you promise…to call me, or Linda, or Dad, or Jamie, or somebody, if you start thinking about killing yourself again."

"Dad made me promise the same thing. I promise, I'll call someone."

* * *

Erin didn't want to come in, insisting she had to get home to Nikki; and Danny sighed as he walked into his dad's house.

His grandfather was sitting at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. "Hey, Danny."

"Hey, Pops." He opened the pantry door, pulled out the peanut butter and the bread, made himself half a peanut-butter sandwich. "Where are the boys?"

"Francis sent them up to bed."

"Good. Be right back."

He trudged up the stairs, checked on the boys—who were sound asleep. Then he popped into the room he and Linda were sharing, rummaged in the duffel bag until he found the little bottle. Stupid happy pills. He measured one out, swallowed it dry.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of milk, drained it, poured a second, and sat down with his grandfather.

"Glad to see you're eating something, Danny."

He stiffened at the reminder that he'd joined them at the dinner table but had hardly touched his plate, and took a bite of the sandwich. "Linda told me all the horrible things that could happen to my insides if I took the pill on an empty stomach."

"Pills making you sick to your stomach?"

"It's one pill, and yeah."

"That's rough."

"Yeah." He finished his sandwich, drained his glass, stood up. "I'm gonna make it an early night. 'Night, Pops."

He threw his glass in the dishwasher, grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer on his way out of the kitchen.

"'Night, Danny."

Upstairs, he unwrapped his hands. They looked worse than they had the night before: swollen, bruised, scabbed. He took a quick shower, cursing every time the hot water hit his knuckles, toweled off, put his robe on, and re-bandaged his hands as best he could.

By the time, he was finished, his hands were burning and his ribs were throbbing. He dialed Linda's cell. "Hey, Danny, how are you doing?"

He lay down gingerly on top of the two pillows Linda had ordered him to sleep on, caught his breath at the stabbing pain. "Danny?"

"I'm here. Moved too fast. Sorry. I'm…okay. I took the bandages off so I could shower. Got 'em wrapped again—not as pretty as you did, but I think it'll do the trick."

"Don't forget to ice your ribs, just don't fall asleep with the ice pack on."

"Just put the ice on. I won't. I miss you."

"Miss you, too." She hesitated. "How's Dr. Dawson?"

"He's good; we just talked through the weekend, didn't discuss anything too heavy." He yawned, suddenly exhausted. "I talked to Erin."

"Good. I'm glad. Get some rest, babe. Call me if you need to; I should be on break around 3 a.m. But I hope you're asleep then."

"Me too. Love you."

"Love you more."

"Love you most. G'night." He hung up, threw his phone down, and turned the light off. It was going to be a long night…

* * *

He woke with a start at 1 a.m. The ice-pack was underneath him, melted and soft. He threw it on the ground, tried to roll over, and caught his breath. If he weren't already on modified, he would've had to take sick leave because of his ribs. Then again, if he hadn't been on modified, Erin wouldn't have beaten him up… It was a mess.

He heard movement downstairs, and got up.

He found his father in the kitchen. "You should be asleep, Danny."

He bit off the _so should you_ that rose to his lips, and put the warm ice pack in the freezer. Then he grabbed a fresh one, sat down next to his dad. "What's on your mind, Danny?"

"If we go back to Staten Island tonight, like we'd planned…that's a helluva lot of driving for Linda. I was thinking…she doesn't work Thursday night, we could all go home as a family that night if…"

"You're more than welcome to spend a couple more nights here, Danny; you know that." His dad looked up at him. "Now, what's really on your mind, son?"

He sighed. "You've always said…'Reagans don't do drugs', 'Reagans don't'…talk about their feelings. Sorry I let you down."

"Danny, son…is that why you never 'got around' to seeing someone to talk about Iraq?"

"Maybe." _Yeah, actually_.

His father steepled his hands on the table. "I shouldn't have…drilled that into you and your siblings, but it was how Pops raised me. After I got back from Vietnam, I began to realize that Pops had his struggles, too, from his time in the Marines. I don't know about his coping mechanisms, but mine weren't that healthy."

He sighed, looked up at Danny. "It's a whole different ballgame when I see my eldest son on the brink of taking his own life because he's in too much pain to live. Danny, I am _proud as hell_ of you for reaching out to Dawson. I'm just sorry that you opening up, getting help with what went on in Iraq…had to come at the price of John Russell taking his own life."

He nodded, seeing in his mind John Russell's face in those last moments.

"His death wasn't your fault, Danny."

"Why the hell does everyone keep saying that—like if they say it 30 million times, I'll start to believe it?"

He hadn't meant to yell, but he had; and the pain took his breath away. He felt tears pooling in his eyes, and cursed.

There was a hand on his back, but he didn't have the strength to move away. "Breathe, Danny! Come on, son. The pain will ease up soon, just take a nice, slow breath."

He tried to swallow, couldn't, and took a gasping breath.

"That's it, there you go. Are you sure nothing's broken?"

He nodded. "That's…what Linda…said."

"Okay. Better now?" He nodded, and his dad pulled his hand away. "We keep telling you that because it's the truth, son."

He shook his head, pushed his chair back from the table, and stood up slowly. "'Night, Dad."

"Danny…!" his dad called after him, but he ignored him and went back upstairs.

 _Not your fault…wasn't your fault…not your fault_ …the words rang in his head, over and over.

It was almost 4 a.m. when he picked his phone up, sent a text to Doc. _How the hell is none of it my fault, Doc?_

Apparently Doc didn't sleep, because he replied in less than a minute. _Did you push John off the ledge, or set off the missiles that killed your buddies?_

_No._

_Can't be your fault, then. Try to get some sleep, Danny._

* * *

His dad's detail dropped him off at the precinct a little before 8. He had a text from Linda: _Just got off. Will drop by to see you before I go home. Love you._

 _Love you more_ , he wrote back.

When she got there, he followed her to Sarge's office, closed the door, wrapped her in his arms. "I love you," he whispered brokenly.

"Love you more," she said, and held him.

After a few minutes, she pulled away, ran a gentle hand down the side of his face. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

He shrugged, winced. "Got a couple hours. Talked to Dad some."

"Did you eat?"

"Pops made pancakes."

"Danny…did you eat any of them?"

"Two." She didn't need to know that he'd eaten them dry, washing them down with a cup of coffee that made his already angry stomach churn more.

"Still nauseous?" He nodded. "I'm sorry. It'll ease up as your body adjusts to the Zoloft." She kissed him. "I tried to change my schedule, but I'm on nights again tonight and tomorrow. Call me if you need to, okay? I don't work Thursday night."

"Good. Bed's too empty. Can't sleep without you."

"I know. I'll pick you up at 5; we can have dinner with Frank and Henry before we head home."

"About that…I talked to Dad last night. He's okay with us spending tonight and tomorrow; that way we can go home as a family Thursday night. It'll mean less driving for you, too…if you're okay with that"

She nodded. "That's a good idea."

He wrapped her in his arms again. "Love you."

"Love you more."

He held her tightly, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through his ribs. "Love you most."


	15. Chapter 15

NYPD Detective Maria Baez closed her eyes in the women's bathroom, remembering the scene only three weeks ago.

_She'd taken Tommy Russell downstairs and entrusted him to an officer. She was on the phone with MaryAnn Russell when she heard screams._

_Judging by the gathering crowd, someone had fallen off, jumped off, or been pushed off, the roof._

_She ran back up the stairs, praying that it hadn't been her partner._

_She pushed open the door to the roof—and stopped, her heart in her mouth._

_Corporal Russell was nowhere to be seen._

_Her partner of just over a year—and friend for eleven years—sat on the rooftop, his head in his hands. "Reagan!" She hurried to him, worried he'd been shot—they'd been told Russell had a gun. "Reagan!"_

_He didn't move—didn't seem to have heard._

" _Danny!"_

_She bent down in front of him, right in his line of sight. "Danny, look at me!"_

_She had to call his name three more times before he looked up._

_His eyes were dead, and she shivered. "Are you okay?"_

_He shook his head._

_She had meant "Are you physically okay?" and she knew he knew that._

_But his answer…an honest one, for once…had nothing to do with his physical well-being, and the pain in his eyes broke her heart._

_She held her hand out to him. "Come on, partner. We need to talk to ESU, and then I'll drive us back to the precinct."_

" _Tommy," he whispered._

" _He's safe. He's with a uniform, and some other uniforms are going to bring his mom."_

_Slowly, he stood up, followed her woodenly downstairs. He talked to the officers and ESU in a hollow, dead voice; there wasn't even a hint of his usual anger—and that was what worried her._

_When they had finished with the officers, they talked to Mrs. Russell._

_Then they headed for the car._

_Danny handed the keys over without her even having to ask—he knew he couldn't drive—and sank into the passenger's seat._

_She started the car. After a few minutes, unable to bear the silence any longer, she said, very, very gently, "It's not your fault, Danny."_

_Normally, that would have provoked an angry outburst, cursing, or_ some _sort of response; but he just sat there._ He's in shock _, she thought._

_Back at the precinct, he filled out all his paperwork methodically, then pulled out his phone. She hoped she knew whom he was calling, and flinched at the emptiness in his voice when he said, "I…I'm drowning, Doc."_

_So, she wasn't surprised when Dr. Dawson came in twenty minutes later._

_She intercepted him in the hallway. "Thanks for coming, Dr. Dawson."_

" _No thanks needed. What happened, Detective?"_

" _Danny tried to talk Russell down, but…he jumped anyway. I was downstairs with Tommy—waiting for ESU and hostage negotiators—when it happened. Other than to give his statement, Danny's barely said five words since. I had to drive us back. He's in shock."_

" _That's understandable. I'm glad he called me. Are you okay, Detective?"_

" _Yeah. I…I didn't see it happen. I don't have Danny's…I never served, so I don't have his…fierce loyalty. I'll be fine, Dr. Dawson."_

" _Well, make sure to reach out to your friends if you need to. It's late, Detective; go home, try to get some rest."_

 _She'd nodded to him, and he'd headed for the desk where Danny sat_.

She leaned back against the sink, wondering how things had gotten this bad. She'd kept trying to get Danny to talk, but he'd kept stonewalling her. He'd mentioned Doc in passing, so she knew he was getting help—or hoped he was at least talking—but he got quieter and angrier, and weight slowly fell off him.

The day Gormley told her Danny was on modified, per the Commissioner's direct orders, had been the day she had planned to go to Gormley herself and tell him Danny needed help.

Now, she was glad he'd gotten it before it was too late.

She left the bathroom, walked back to her desk. Her partner was sitting in his chair, going through papers, cursing occasionally under his breath.

"I brought lunch. Homemade chicken noodle soup. Figured it'd be easy on your stomach."

He sighed. "You too, Baez?"

She shrugged. "I'm a detective, Danny; I notice things. Your clothes are hanging off you; you've lost …what…ten, fifteen pounds? I heard you losing your lunch in the men's bathroom yesterday—can't imagine that was fun, what with bruised ribs and all."

"How do you know it was me, and not the drunk perp?"

"I had just walked the perp back to the holding cell."

"Oh."

* * *

He felt his shoulders slump when Baez caught him in the lie.

Third day on modified. Stupid desk duty. Eight hours a day, forty hours a week, for six weeks. 240 hours of boredom.

The phone had rung several times an hour. Sometimes it was someone with a legitimate complaint, or another precinct needing help on a case. Other times, it was crackpots that made him wonder, for the millionth time, why anyone would ever choose to do drugs.

When he wasn't answering the phone, he was sorting the mail, digging through boxes of papers for his partner's current case.

"Detective Reagan, you have some visitors," a voice said, and he sighed, turned around.

Tommy Russell and his mother were walking toward him. "Hi, Detective Danny!" the little boy said, and he rose to his feet.

"Hi, Detective Reagan. Tommy's been begging to come by for the last week; but between moving and paperwork and appointments…we haven't been able to until now. He has something for you."

He blinked. "But…his dad is dead because of me," he whispered.

"No, Detective Reagan, John is dead…because of John. Tommy is alive because of you."

Tommy handed him a folded piece of paper.

He unfolded it, and froze.

It was a picture of him pulling Tommy off the ledge—not entirely accurate, but…kids.

His breath caught.

He swallowed, tried to say something, but the words were lodged in his throat.

"Thank you, Detective Danny." The little boy poked him in the leg, and Danny squatted down to make eye contact with the eight-year-old.

His breath caught at the pain—it wasn't his ribs, that time—but he kept his face neutral, not wanting to scare the boy. He had to swallow before he could get the words. "Thank you, Tommy. I…I'm sorry I couldn't save your dad, kiddo. I tried."

Tommy threw his arms around him, rocking Danny back on his heels. He patted the boy on the back, blinked back tears of pain, then pulled away. "Would you like to look around this big police station?" The boy nodded, and Danny stood. "Officer, would you give them a tour? I'll see you soon, okay?" he said to Tommy, who nodded vigorously, and followed his mother and the officer.

He turned to make his escape to the bathroom, when a voice said, "Detective Reagan." It was MaryAnn Russell. "Thank you for trying to save John. You did everything you could."

 _No, I didn't_ , he thought. Aloud, he said, "I'm sorry it wasn't enough," and hurried towards the men's room.

He made it just in time for the pancakes and coffee to come back the way they'd gone down.

"Dammit!" he said, as he rinsed his mouth out in the sink.

He took a hard look at himself in the mirror—something he'd been avoiding.

He looked like crap—there were dark circles under his eyes, his belt was three holes tighter than normal, and his clothes were hanging off him. If this didn't stop soon…he was never gonna return to full duty.

He was shaking, and he cursed again as he pulled out his phone to send a text. _Tommy Russell and his mom just came by_.

He set the phone down, splashed cold water on his face, then leaned on the counter.

A few minutes passed before the reply came. _Let me guess: they came by to blame you for not saving John?_

He knew Doc wasn't serious—it was a damned therapeutic tactic—but the guilt still brought a lump to his throat. _No. To thank me, again. Tommy had a picture for me—me pulling him off the ledge. Not entirely factual, but what the hell. Mrs. R even told me I "did everything I could."_

 _Maybe you should listen to them, Danny. You_ did _do everything you could. It's not your fault John jumped_.

 _Tell that to my stomach_ , he wrote back, and deleted the messages.

He checked that the rest of the stalls were empty, then leaned against the door, dialed Linda.

She answered, groggily, on the fourth ring. "Hey, Danny."

"Hey. Sorry to wake you."

"It's okay, I told you to call me. What's wrong?"

"Tommy and Mrs. Russell just dropped by—to thank me for saving Tommy's life. Tommy drew me a picture—me pulling him off the ledge. Not exactly what happened, but...kids. Mrs. Russell told me I did everything I could."

"They don't blame you, Danny—maybe you should stop blaming yourself."

"Trying. I celebrated Tommy's gift by losing my breakfast."

"Danny…"

He closed his eyes. "It's probably just the new med, like you said." He swallowed. "I need to get back to work. Love you."

"Love you more. Take care of yourself, Danny, okay?"

He nodded. "Trying. Love you most."

Back at his desk, he propped the drawing up on his desk.

Baez looked at him. "Is that a good idea, partner? I mean…is it going to remind you that you saved Tommy…or it going to haunt you, because you couldn't save his dad?"

"I don't know," he whispered.

"Bye, Detective Danny!" he heard, and he turned as the little boy ran up to him.

"Bye, Tommy. Be good for your mom, okay?" he said, and sighed in relief when his phone rang. _Excuse me_ , he mouthed to Mrs. Russell, and picked up the phone. "Reagan."


	16. Chapter 16

The next two days dragged by in a grind of phone calls, surveillance videos, and paperwork; and he sighed in relief when Linda picked him up at 5 on Thursday. He leaned over to kiss her. "Thanks for picking me up. This not being able to drive is getting damned annoying."

She kissed him back. "Give it another week or so, Danny."

He nodded, clicked his seatbelt. "How was your day, babe?"

"Good. Slept, spent some quality time with Henry. What time did Dawson change your appointment to? Was it 7?" He nodded, and she said, "Okay. The boys and I'll pick you up at 8, and we can go home."

The minute he walked in the door of his dad's house, the boys ran at him, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out when they tackled him. "Hey, boys. How was school?"

"Had a math test. Math sucks," Sean groused.

Danny cuffed him gently on the side of the head. "Language, kiddo. Jack?"

His older son shrugged. "English test. It was hard."

"I'm sure you did fine," he said, and let the boys drag him to the table.

His grandfather had made Italian Wedding soup; and, to his own surprise, he ate an entire bowl, plus two pieces of crusty bread.

* * *

After dinner, Linda went upstairs to pack. She was almost finished when a photo album caught her eye, and she pulled it off the bookshelf, sat on the bed to look at it.

She was laughing at a pic of Danny's cake-covered face at what appeared to have been his first birthday party, when he walked in, sat down next to her. "Do you have a minute, babe?"

She closed the album. "For you? Always, babe. What is it?" She turned to face him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "What's wrong, Danny?"

He was staring at the floor. "I…I'm sorry for putting you and the boys through all this. I'm sorry you have to put up with me."

She leaned in to kiss him, then held his face in her hands so she could look him in the eye. "I love you, Danny Reagan. I am not just 'putting up with you'; I love you. And you have nothing to apologize to me for. When I married you…you'd been in the Marines, you were a cop…I knew PTSD was a possibility. I love you despite all that."

"You didn't know I'd go off the deep end."

The self-loathing in his voice broke her heart. She swallowed hard. The last thing he needed was her breaking down on him. "Danny, you haven't 'gone off the deep end.' You're struggling, you're having a really hard time these days—but you are _not_ crazy."

He pulled away, shook his head. "Linda, I just…I want all this to be over. I'm tired."

Fear shot through her. "What do you mean, you want 'all this to be over'?"

"I don't…I'm not talking about…" He let out a shaky breath, rubbed at the back of his neck. "I want to go back to the way I was before John Russell, when my post-traumatic stress wasn't eating me alive every second of every day, when it was buried and I could live and work, and, and…and f-g breathe!"

She wrapped her arms around him. "I know, babe. But you're going to have to talk about it in order to work through it; you can't just bury it again." She let him think about that for a minute, then asked very, very gently, "Have you talked with Doc at all about being depressed?"

His shoulders slumped. "No. Not really. He's mentioned it in passing; even asked me, in the middle of the case, if I was depressed. I couldn't answer him. Now, I…" He trailed off, shook his head.

"You'll talk about this with him tonight?" He nodded, and she kissed him.

* * *

Alex Dawson was filing papers when there was a knock on the door. He shut and locked the filing cabinet, pocketed the key, and stood up. "Come on in, Danny."

The door opened slowly, and an exhausted-looking Danny Reagan walked in, shut the door behind him, and walked over to his usual chair. He sat down. "Hey, Doc."

"Good to see you, Danny. How you holding up?"

The detective shrugged, winced. "I don't want to be here."

Alex nodded slowly, sat down in his own chair. "Okay. Thank you for being honest with me. Why don't you want to be here?"

"I don't want to talk about…anything. It's not like talking's gonna help. This is just a waste of time."

Alex Dawson leaned forward to lock eyes with the detective. "Talking won't solve your problems, Danny; but it will help you start to process things. Why did you call me three weeks ago?"

"Because I was drowning."

"And you're not drowning now? You're safely on shore, solid ground under your feet?"

He sighed—a tired sigh, not his usual, angry sigh. "I…I didn't say that, Doc! I…Why does it matter if I'm drowning or not? I'm tired of fighting!"

"It matters because you have people who love you and care about you."

Danny flinched at that—the first sign of emotion he'd shown since walking in—and looked away. "I …I told John that right before…" He shook his head. "It was one of…the last things I said to him."

"And it's as true for you as it was for him. None of your family wants you to drown, Danny."

Danny let out a shaky breath. "Linda thinks I'm depressed. I mean…you saw my score on that stupid depression questionnaire the GP made me take; think I got an A, or I guess an F. I'm so blasted tired of…of everything, Doc. I was fine…well, I was surviving…up until three-and-a-half weeks ago. I'd managed to keep the PTSD to a manageable background noise; now, it's all I can hear."

"I know. I wish I could tell you that there was an easy way around this; but you can't sidestep the issue, you have to face it head-on. The Zoloft will help, but it's going to take a while before you start feeling any improvement. Meanwhile, talking about the memories, the things that make you depressed, the things that upset you and anger you and make you want to give up on life, will help. I promise you." He cleared his throat. "We'll tackle this bit-by-bit, but for now, I want you to tell me one thing about Iraq that has been on your mind for the past few weeks."

Danny sighed. After a few minutes he said, slowly, quietly, "At dinner the night John Russell…killed himself…my niece asked me…about the medal I got…for my time in Fallujah, and…I couldn't answer her."

The detective stood up, walked to the window, and stared out.

Alex watched the tremors running through him.

After a few minutes, Danny let out a shaky breath. "All I could see was…the faces…of the guys I lost…the insurgents I killed…the kids we lost. Nikki's question…made my stomach churn."

"What medal did you get, and why?"

He shook his head. "What does it matter? The twelve men in my unit who didn't make it home… they deserved the medals they got. I don't."

"Why do you think you don't deserve the medal? Because you survived?" Danny just shrugged, and Alex went on, "What about your father? He has the Marine Corps Achievement medal, correct?"

Danny nodded.

"Did he not deserve that medal because he didn't die in combat?"

"I didn't say that, Doc."

"I know. I'm trying to get you to think here, Danny. Does surviving combat automatically mean that a veteran should not get a medal?"

"No."

"Are Marine Corps medals awarded only to Marines who died in combat?"

"No."

"So why do you think you don't deserve the medal?"

Danny whirled. "Because I made it home!" he half-shouted, half-whispered. "I came back alive, to my wife and my boys. Those twelve other medals—sit in boxes, are held by grieving widows, kids who'll never see their dads again. Mine's stuffed in a box where I have to see it every damn time I get my gun."

"Seeing it daily must hurt. What medal did you get, Danny?"

Danny walked back to his chair and slumped into it. He leaned his chin in his hands. "Bronze Star," he whispered

"Thank you for telling me."

Danny didn't say anything for several minutes; he just sat there, and Alex could almost see the older man wrestling with himself.

Then he said very, very quietly, "I'm ready to talk about Iraq."

"I'm listening, Danny."

And that's exactly what he did for the next hour as Danny told him about the horrors he saw in Fallujah, Iraq; as the seasoned detective cursed, paced, and yelled; and as he had to hold the older man back twice from putting his already-battered fists through the wall.

It was well after 8 when Danny sank into a chair, covered his eyes with his hand.

There was a knock on the door, and Alex rose, opened it. Linda and the boys stood there. "Is everything okay? I tried to text Danny, but…"

"Boys, can you give me a minute with your mom?" They hung back. "Danny really opened up. He told me everything about both of his tours. He's exhausted, Linda."

She nodded, and walked towards the chair where he sat; and Alex squatted down to chat with the boys. "Is my dad okay?" Jack asked.

"He will be. He had…to talk about a lot of stuff that really upset him."

"But you're a doctor! You're supposed to make him better, not hurt him!" Sean said, and Alex smiled at the eleven-year-old.

"Well, I hear your brother gave a really good presentation for school a couple weeks ago. Is that right?" he asked and the kid nodded. "Your dad told me all about the presentation, including what Jack said about when someone keeps things inside. When you keep everything inside for so long, it really hurts when you finally talk about it. Your dad was very brave tonight—he talked about the stuff that hurt him."

Danny and Linda were walking toward them, and Danny held out his hand.

Alex Dawson gripped it, locked eyes with the older man. "Thank you for your service, Danny."

Danny didn't say anything, but his eyes said _Thank you_ and _I'm sorry_.

Alex nodded to him. "I'll see you Monday."

Lips pressed tightly together as if he were trying not to cry, Danny nodded back, put his arms around his boys' shoulders, and walked with his family out of the office.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: The scars that are mentioned as being below Danny's "Semper Fi" tattoo can be seen in Season 2, Episode 5, "A Night on the Town," at 39:42**.

* * *

He jumped when a hand shook his shoulder. "Danny!" Linda sounded worried.

He blinked. They were in the car, and it wasn't moving. They were sitting in the driveway.

Somehow, he had missed the entire drive home.

He turned to Linda but couldn't find any words. She squeezed his hand, then got out of the car.

She unlocked the door, let the boys in, and then stood there waiting for him.

He undid his seat-belt, got out of the car, and walked into the house.

Everything looked fuzzy, sounded far-off. Was he having a flashback…?

He was shaking with exhaustion by the time he got to the top of the stairs, and he showered and changed on auto-pilot.

He sat down on the bed, jumped when Linda put her arms around him. "Easy, Danny, it's just me."

"Sorry," he whispered, and picked up the bottle of Zoloft from his bedside table, dry-swallowed one.

"It's okay, you're safe, Danny. Whatever you're remembering isn't real."

He nodded shakily.

He felt hot, dry, like he'd been wandering around the desert towns of Fallujah for the past six months.

But he was in his room…he could see the closet, and smell Linda’s perfume, and feel his bed underneath him.

He was safe.

From everything except the memories inside his head.

His hand went to his tattoo, and the scars just below it. His heart was trying to fight its way out of his chest, and his scars were throbbing in unison. He cursed. He didn't have to be a shrink to know his scars only hurt like that when he'd been thinking about Fallujah.

"Are the boys okay?"

"The boys are fine. Right now, you're the one I'm worried about. You haven't said a word since I walked into Dawson's office."

"Sorry." He reached for her, and buried his face in her shoulder. He was shaking…this was shock, he'd felt it after each close call in Fallujah…and he cursed under his breath, flinched when her arms came around him.

"Shhh, Danny… I know it hurts, I know. I've got you, babe. I'm here."

 _Snap out of it, Marine!_ he told himself. But he couldn't snap out of it, he couldn't make the tears stop, and he clung to her. "I…I can't…"

"Shhh…it's okay, Danny. It's okay."

He shook his head…it wasn't okay…and gave in to the tears and the suffocating waves.

When he could breathe again, he lifted his head, swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Doc told me I had to…face the pain, if I wanted to get better. I told him I'd rather not. But now, I…I can't get away from it. It hurts, Linda."

She rubbed his back. "I know, Danny, I know. You've kept everything from Iraq bottled up for so long…Doc said you told him everything. I can't imagine how much that hurt."

He scoffed. "Everything? I wish. I just told him some of the worst things that happened. It'd probably take a year of sessions—twice a week—to tell him everything."

He let out a shaky breath. "There's something…I need to tell you, babe. I haven't thought about this in years…until tonight. But I need you to hear me out…promise me you won't say a word until I'm done."

"I promise. I'm listening, Danny."

He cleared his throat. Damn, this was hard. "While I was…trying to talk John Russell down…one of the things I told him was that…I'd been where he was. I…I didn't make that up."

She gasped but didn't say anything.

He swallowed hard. "About two months after I got home, you called me to tell me Sean had a 101˚ fever. Remember that day?"

Her head nodded against his shoulder.

He slipped his arm around her shoulders, needing to feel her close. "Your call…saved my life. I'd just spent twenty minutes sitting in my car with my service weapon at my head, because I…I couldn't handle the memories anymore. I never told you because…I thought you'd think I was a coward. I'm sorry," he said, and cursed when his voice cracked.

She gasped, and then hugged him so hard his ribs throbbed.

"You are not a coward, Danny. How…how did you keep going?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I realized…you and the boys needed me. So I shoved everything else down. Sheer Irish stubbornness, I guess."

She kissed him gently. "The boys and I still need you just as much as we did then. Jack wants to talk to you before he goes to bed."

He nodded, pulled on his bathrobe, swiped at his eyes, and walked down to his older son's room. Jack was reading _Lord of the Rings_ , his latest favorite. "Hey, kiddo, how come you aren't asleep?"

Jack shrugged. "You looked really sad when we picked you up earlier. Are you okay, Dad? You… you've been crying."

He nodded, sat down on the bed next to his boy. "I will be, kiddo. I…just…remembering stuff that happened in Iraq makes me really sad. But I'll be okay." He ruffled Jack's hair. "School tomorrow, so you need to get some sleep. Maybe we'll do something fun on Saturday, okay?"

Jack nodded, tackled him in a bear-hug. "'Night, Dad."

"'Night, kiddo; love you."

Back in their bedroom, he shucked off his bathrobe, lay down. Linda snuggled up to him, laid her head over his heart. "You gonna be able to sleep?"

He shrugged, ran his fingers through her hair. "I…I don't know. I wish this blasted pill did something for nightmares." He let out a shaky breath. "Love you."

"Love you more."

He took a shaky, shuddery breath. "Love you most."


	18. Chapter 18

He was shining his shoes before Sunday Mass when Linda sat down next to him. "You didn't sleep last night. Nightmares?"

He shook his head. "No. Memories. It's been four weeks since John Russell killed himself."

"It wasn't your fault, Danny."

He threw his shine brush across the room. "It _was_ my fault! I didn't follow protocol; I didn't wait for ESU or HNT; I just…charged in there, thinking I could talk him down!"

"Danny…you don't follow protocol on your good days; that wasn't one of them! You did everything you thought was best to try to save Corporal Russell's life. You saved his son's life."

He shook his head. "But I couldn't save John Russell!"

She took his face in her hands. "Danny, babe, you have got to stop blaming yourself. What would you have done? Grabbed his leg and tried to pull him to safety? If he'd fought you, you both could have gone over the ledge, and…and…the boys and I couldn't have survived that."

She kissed him; and he clung to her, and didn't let go until Jack hollered from downstairs that they were going to be late.

He was glad that Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows offered last-minute confessions, and he slipped into the box, crossed himself. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's two months since my last confession. I lost my temper with my dad, my sister, a lotta perps, and other drivers, on a daily basis." Deep sigh. That was the one that always got him.

He rattled off the usual litany of venial sins: cursing, lying, gluttony, impatience, not praying, etcetera, etcetera, _in saecula saeculorum_ (forever and ever), amen.

Another sigh. He'd left the biggie for last. "I've been…struggling with suicidal thoughts lately. I had…a case…couldn't save this army vet from committing suicide. It stirred up my PTSD, and it got so bad that two weeks ago I was really thinking about ending it all. I was also just diagnosed with depression. Is…having suicidal thoughts…a sin?"

He heard Father Donovan let out a long, slow sigh. "No, thoughts are not sinful. A mental illness such as PTSD does lessen your culpability. Are you getting professional psychological help?"

"Yes, Father. I'm also on an anti-depressant."

"Good. Keep both of those things up, and be honest with your therapist. Are you married?"

"Yes, Father. Sixteen years. Two kids."

"Think of your family, how devastated they would be if you took your own life. They need you in their lives, just like you need them. Lean on your wife and your other adult family members; don't make them your therapists, but don't shut them out."

"Yeah," he whispered.

The priest paused. "I'd like you to spend five minutes a day in prayer; the Psalms are a great place to start, because it seems that David struggled with depression, with feeling his life had no meaning. He cried out to God in them, trying to find hope, something to cling to. I'd like you to read Psalm 69 later today. For your penance, say the Our Father five times, and now make an Act of Contrition."

He sighed in relief when he left the confessional. He'd expected to get lectured on how suicide was a mortal sin, told he was going to hell for even thinking about it; instead, Father Donovan had been understanding, compassionate.

He knelt, stood, sat, and sang as usual during Mass; but during the sermon, his mind went straight back to Fallujah, and he only stood for the Creed after Linda had jostled his elbow three times.

After Communion, he knelt down in the pew, covered his face with his hands, and hoped no one could see his shoulders shaking. But then Jack pressed himself against his right side, and Linda's arm came around his shoulders from the other side.

He was shaking, he was _not_ crying, he _would not_ cry anymore; and if he hadn't been in church, he would have cursed when he felt a few rebellious tears leak out.

After Mass, while the boys threw snowballs at Jamie, he slowed his steps, pulled Linda close. "I don't think I'm gonna make it to family dinner; I'm not hungry."

"You know the rules, Danny; you have to come. Besides, they all know you're on modified, so you can't use work as an excuse." She put her arm around him. "This isn't just about you not being hungry, is it?"

He shook his head. "I won't be good company. Also, I…I don't want a repeat of last week's disaster."

He tensed, remembering Erin's painful fury. The week had dragged on; forty hours chained to a desk felt more like eighty; six or so hours of broken sleep each night. During the other fifty hours, trying to be present to his boys and his father and grandfather, and then Linda when her night shifts ended, but more often than not feeling as if he were watching everything from underwater.

Even cheering at the boys' hockey game on Saturday had felt like he was cheering on auto-pilot; stuck behind a two-way mirror where he could see but no one saw him.

She let out a slow breath. "Is the dizziness any better?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Except when I stand up too fast."

She rubbed at his back. "Do you think it's safe for you to drive?"

"I think so; Doc didn't set a time limit."

"Okay. If you want…if you take the kids to the bakery, I'll talk to Jamie and Erin. Just so they know not to push any of your buttons right now."

He nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

So while he took the boys and Nicki to pick up dessert from the bakery, Linda got a ride back to his dad's.

* * *

He put off coming to the table as long as he could, finally stalking in with a muttered "Sorry I'm late."

His father glanced at him. "It's your turn to say grace."

He was too tired to argue, so he said it half-heartedly, but not quickly enough to merit a rebuke.

Jamie told them about some absurd things he'd seen on the job. Pops threw in his two cents, and they bantered back-and-forth. It was almost as if they were trying to keep the conversation light for his sake—not what he'd meant when he agreed to let Linda talk to them.

His stomach was churning and his ribs had picked up their throbbing; and as the rest of the family passed around the cheesecake, he was still staring at his almost-full plate.

He shook his head when Linda offered him a slice of cheesecake, and she slipped her arm around his waist. One of the knots in his stomach untied itself, and he poked half-heartedly at a potato, choked it down.

Somehow, he managed to finish all the salad, most of the potatoes, and half of the meat.

He was on dish duty that night, and he was scraping off the last plates when his dad came in. "Hey."

"Hey, Dad."

His dad walked over to the fridge, took out two bottles of ginger ale, opened them, and sat down at the table. After a minute, Danny joined him.

"What happened in Iraq, Danny? I know you're the only one who made it home…was it a firefight?"

He shook his head. "No," he whispered. He took a swallow of ginger ale, then quietly told his dad what had happened. He was too tired to argue with him when his dad told him—again—that it hadn't been his fault.

The boys were finishing a card game with Pops, and Linda was having a quiet conversation with his dad (he was pretty sure it was about him) as he shrugged his jacket on. Erin walked in the kitchen then, closed the door behind her. "We need to talk. You've been avoiding my calls."

He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "That's 'cause I don't know what to say, Erin! Between desk duty, attempting to sleep, and spending time with my boys, I've been kinda busy."

"I've been calling because I wanted to see if my big brother would meet me for lunch."

He shook his head, felt his shoulders slump. "Oh. I wouldn't be very good company. Plus, my appetite hasn't been great."

"Could a hero tempt your appetite?"

He forced a smile. "Maybe."

"Good. Then I'll meet you at the precinct tomorrow."

He nodded as cheers erupted from the next room. "Sounds good. I should get going; I'll see you tomorrow."

She smiled, put a gentle hand on his arm, and slipped out of the room.

Sean had won the card game; and after a round of high-fives, Linda joined them and they headed home.

While Linda was in the shower, he picked up the Bible, thumbed through until he found Psalm 69.

_Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck._

_I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold;_

_I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me._

_I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched._

_My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God_.*

Dang, it was like David had read his mind. Or maybe Dawson had been reading the Psalms that Sunday afternoon four weeks ago. He looked down at the footnote, which described David as "figuratively drowning."

He grabbed a pen off his bedside table, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the back of the Bible, and scribbled the first two verses down: "… _the waters have come up to my neck…the flood sweeps over me_."

*Psalm 69:1-4.


	19. Chapter 19

Work on Monday dragged by; lunch with Erin went okay; and at the end of his shift, he drove home for dinner, played a game of foosball with his boys (he lost), then drove to Doc's.

"I see you're driving again," Doc said much too cheerfully after he'd sat down.

He shrugged his coat off. "Yeah, as of yesterday. First time in…ten days. Dizziness is mostly gone."

"That's good. How's work going?"

He sighed. "I thought thirty days on modified meant thirty _calendar_ days, but I re-read the paperwork today, and it's thirty _work_ days—that means five more weeks instead of three until I get my shield back!" He cursed under his breath, then pinched himself when he realized he'd been to confession yesterday and was supposed to be trying to stop cursing.

Doc leaned forward, was quiet for a minute; then he said, slowly, "I get that you're frustrated about extra time on modified. However, I think those extra weeks will give you some benefits when it comes time to re-take your fitness-for-duty eval." He paused. "Do you want to know what those are?"

"Sure," he whispered.

"First, you'll have been on the Zoloft for two extra weeks, which means more time for it to work, and a chance for Forsythe to see how it's helping you. Second, it means more sessions with me—ten instead of six—which means four more hours for you to talk through and work through things. What it all boils down to is: more time to get you in the best emotional shape possible for your second fitness-for-duty eval."

"I…I don't mind talking with you, Doc. I can't say I enjoy talking about feelings and memories and crap; but you don't try to b.s. me."

Dawson looked up at him. "Thank you for that, Detective Reagan. Speaking of 'feelings and memories and crap,' I'd like you to tell me how your weekend was—but focus on your mood, how you were feeling and what you were thinking."

"Really, Doc? All this touchy-feely crap, crying because I remember things…it's stupid."

Doc leaned forward. "Emotions are a part of human existence, Danny; every one of us, from the toughest detective in your precinct, to the toughest gang member on the street, has them. Don't try to tell me that the only emotion you feel is anger. You love your wife, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Does loving your wife make you less of a Marine, less of a man, less of a tough detective?"

"No."

"Is allowing yourself to feel love for your wife stupid?"

"No."

"So why should feeling sadness for the men you lost, for John Russell, be stupid?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"It's not stupid, Danny, and it doesn't make you any less of a tough cop. It just means you're human." Doc paused. "What 'touchy-feely' crap and memories have made you cry?"

"Our session Thursday. Yesterday, I cried during Mass; couldn't stop seeing the faces of the men I lost."

He let out a shaky breath. "The weird thing, though…I've been a mess; but on Saturday, at the boys' hockey game…I cheered, I congratulated them when I won; but it was all an act; I felt…dead inside."

Doc leaned forward. "Let me make sure I'm hearing you correctly. On one hand, the sadness and guilt are overwhelming; on the other hand, you feel empty at times when normally you would feel happy. Did I hear you right?"

"Yeah."

"Some of that ambivalence is from your depression; some of it is from the anti-depressant, and will wear off as you adjust to the med."

Doc was quiet for a few minutes, then said, "You've been coming in for four weeks, and we've talked through some pretty major things; but now I have a question for you. What is your goal for therapy? What do you want out of these sessions, Danny?"

"I want to get off modified and back to my job."

"Dig a bit deeper, Danny."

His shoulders slumped. "I want things to go back to the way they were before John Russell killed himself…hell, before I caught that case."

"Good job, Danny. How were things before that case?"

He blinked. "I don't…I can't remember."

"Well, then tell me what's been different _since_ Russell's death."

"I'm tired, Doc. The last couple weeks…I had a few tough cases, but I just…I didn't get the satisfaction I normally get from catching the perp, getting information out of him, or getting a little girl safely home to her parents. I felt…nothing. Almost like…what does it matter, now that John Russell's dead?"

"Why should his death mean that nothing matters anymore?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It just does."

"Danny…Corporal Russell's death wasn't your fault."

He didn't say anything, and Doc got up, walked over to the small fridge next to the coffee machine, opened it, and took out two small water bottles. He handed one to Danny, then sat back down.

"Had John already decided to kill himself by the time you walked onto that roof?"

He nodded, opened the water bottle and took a long drink.

"Did you tell him to jump, push him off the roof?"

He flinched at that image. "No."

"So…John letting himself fall was an act of his free will?"

"Yeah."

Doc took a sip of his water. "When a person has made up his mind to do something, how easy is it to get him to change his mind?"

"Not very easy."

"Therefore, John Russell decided to kill himself, and his death is not your fault."

He drained the water bottle, set it down, and leaned his chin in his hands. "I see your point, Doc…it makes sense…it's logical…it's just…I can't…I just don't know why I should care anymore."

"You don't know why you should care about what, Danny?"

"Anything," he whispered.

"What about Linda and the boys?"

He blinked. "What about them?"

"Can you honestly tell me you don't care about them?"

He caught his breath. "I…I didn't say that, Doc."

"You implied it, when you said you don't know why you should care about 'anything.' You know they love you, right?"

He nodded. "I don't wanna hurt them," he whispered.

Doc leaned forward, locked eyes with him. "Then that's where we'll start. If you don't want to hurt them, then _fight_ this—for Linda, for Jack, for Sean! Find one little part of you that cares enough to fight the darkness because you don't want to hurt your family."

He shuddered. He knew somewhere, buried under the numbness, he had half a smidgen of…not-wanting-to-hurt-his-family; but was it enough? "Why does it matter?"

"It matters because you do not deserve to spend the rest of your life trapped by your PTSD and depression. You deserve healing, Danny."

He flinched, looked at his watch. 9:15. "We've run over."

Doc glanced at his own watch. "Yes, we have, but we'll come back to this topic Thursday. In the meantime, I have something for you."

Doc rose, walked over to his desk, and picked up some pamphlets, handed them to Danny. "These are some self-help strategies for depression—exercise, sunshine, a regular sleep schedule, leaning on your family. I'd like you to read over these with Linda, pick two or three that you can incorporate into your daily routine, and tell me about them on Thursday."

He shrugged. "Sure, okay, whatever. Any other homework, Doc?"

Doc sighed. After a few minutes he said, slowly, "When you get home tonight, do something fun with your boys. Look at their reactions, their body language, and ask yourself…ask yourself if they love you, if they trust you, and if you want to injure that trust by ending it all. When they go to bed, ask each of them—directly—if they love you."

He huffed. "Really, Doc?"

"Yes. Then go hug your wife."

He nodded, stood up as Doc said, "I'll see you Thursday, Danny. Call me if you need to before then."

"Copy that. Thanks, Doc."


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: This chapter picks up where the last one left off: Monday night, post-session with Doc, eleven days after Danny's struggles with suicidal thoughts in chapter 8**.

* * *

After he left Doc's office, he got in the car, locked the doors, and dialed a number.

His dad answered on the third ring. "Hey, Danny, what's wrong?"

"Sorry to call you so late. Do you have a minute?"

"What's wrong, Danny?" his dad asked again.

He let out a shaky breath. All of a sudden, this seemed like a much more stupid idea than it had during his walk to the car. "N…nothing. I just called to say 'hi'…"

"Don't give me that b.s., Danny. What's wrong, son?"

He hadn't heard his dad's voice that gentle in a long time. "I just got out of Doc's office, and I was thinking…maybe…maybe all this therapy and the anti-depressant is a waste of time, because maybe I deserve the depression and the PTSD. Maybe that's the price I have to pay for…making it home alive and not in a box."

"Danny...no one deserves to feel like his life has no meaning."

"Dad, you don't…"

"I don't need to know every detail of what happened in Iraq—though I'll listen if you need to tell me, Danny. What I do know is that you have more than made up for whatever happened in Iraq, whomever you feel you failed."

He was trying to find the words to tell his dad that he couldn't tell him everything that happened, that it was hard enough telling Doc and then going home a broken mess and talking to Linda, when his father said, "If you can't find the will to live yourself, then there are three reasons at your house. Go home, hug Linda, hug your boys."

He nodded. "Okay, I can do that. Thanks, dad."

It was close to 10 by the time he got home. Linda was sitting on the couch reading, and he leaned down to kiss her. "Hey, babe, how was your day?"

"It was good. How was lunch with Erin?"

He shrugged. "It was okay. Let me talk to the boys before they go to bed." He leaned down for another kiss. "Homework assignment," he whispered in her ear, and she nodded.

He walked over to the kitchen table where the boys were playing a card game, sat down. "When you're finished, let's play Spoons."

Sean threw his cards down, stood up, and stalked into the kitchen. "Now's fine, Jack hasn't let me win once."

"It's not a matter of _letting you win_ , Sean-o; it's a matter of _you stink_."

"Hey, be nice now," Danny chastised as Sean came back with two spoons, which he slammed onto the table.

It was a fast-paced game, but he was paying too much attention to his boys—reading their body language, looking in their eyes when they made eye contact—to really pay attention to the game, and he lost both games.

There was no fear in their eyes, and he relaxed just a bit.

"All right, good game. Get outta here. I'll come say goodnight in a sec."

Linda came up beside him, leaned into him. "Why'd Doc want you to play a game with the boys?"

He shrugged. "To see their reactions." She looked puzzled and he sighed. "To see that they love me and trust me and…to see how much it would hurt them if…if I…"

He couldn't say the words, and she kissed him fiercely. "Go say goodnight to our boys, Danny. I'll be in our room."

He nodded, kissed her, and trudged up the stairs.

He knocked on Sean's door. "Yeah?"

"It's Dad."

Sean opened the door. "Night, Dad." He frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I…I will be." He ruffled his younger son's hair. "Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, Dad."

He knocked on Jack's door, surprised when the thirteen-year-old opened it and tackled him. Maybe his ribs weren't as healed as he thought… "Hey, whoah…old man here, bruised ribs."

Jack pulled away instantly. "Sorry, dad…did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

He winced. "It's okay, I…I'll be okay. 'Night, kiddo."

"Night, dad. Love you."

"Love you too, kiddo."

He hadn't specifically asked the boys if they loved him—but they'd said the words, so that probably counted. Maybe.

He showered and changed quickly, then sat down next to Linda. "Doc was…" He trailed off, shook his head. "Just…let me hold you?" He hated the pathetic tone in his voice, but another wave had crashed over him; and he didn't have the energy to fight it.

She scooted into his lap, laid her head over his heart; and he just held her. By some miracle she was still putting up with him, still here.

"Doc needs to ease up on you, Danny; you've been a million miles away since you got home."

"Not a million. Just 5,973." But she just looked at him blankly, and he said, bitterly, "The number of miles between here and Fallujah."

"Danny…"

He shook his head. "Doc was full of it tonight. Tried to tell me that I don't deserve to spend the rest of my life with depression and PTSD." He sighed. "We ran out of time for me to tell him that if that's the price I have to pay for being the only one who made it home, then I'll pay it."

"Danny…you've been home for nine years. All that time, and you still think you didn't deserve to come home?"

He took a ragged breath, cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was bitter, rough. "Linda, every last one of us wanted to get home to our families; hell, that's the only thing that got me through each day. And yet, in my last two months over there, we lost 72 Marines. At least once killed every day. Most of them were 19- and 20- year-old kids. Want me to tell you their names? 19-year-old Lance Corporal Bobby LaRue, 19-year-old Lance Corporal John Larson, 20-year-old Lance Corporal Matt Pearsons…" He trailed off. "I saw at least twenty of these kids die before my eyes. So yeah, I still f-g wonder why I made it home—why they were killed and I wasn't! I deserve every second of survivor's guilt and depression."

"No…Danny…you don't deserve any of that. You don't deserve to live in pain."

"Well, I don't know how to _not_ live in pain, Linda! Maybe the only reason I made it home is to make up for every kid we lost over there, by getting justice for every victim in every case I work. And I couldn't save Russell, so maybe I deserve this pain!"

"No, Danny. You don't deserve to live in pain."

She sat up, cupped his face in her hands. "Danny, babe, you're going around in circles. You came home, okay? I cannot tell you why you were the only one in your unit to survive, but you were. And now you're home, and I know you buried all this for nine years…but now it's time to fight through this. You deserve healing. You deserve to live a happy life."

He flinched, and she moved behind him, back against the headrest. "Come here, Danny." He scooted over, unsure what she wanted, and let out a shaky sigh as she began massaging his shoulders.

Some of the tension left him, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, leaned his chin in his hands. "I…talked to Doc about the depression, like you suggested. He gave me some brochures—'self-help strategies for depression'—exercise, sunshine, sleep, family. He wants me to look at them with you, find two I can do daily, and tell him on Thursday."

"I'll help you with that tomorrow. Right now, you need to sleep." He shook his head, and she said gently, "One day at a time, babe. Maybe you need to take a couple sick days, get some rest."

"Can't. That'd just mean even more days on modified."

"If you need the extra time…for both your physical and mental health…no one's gonna hold it against you." He tensed, and she said, "Are you eating lunch at work?"

He shrugged.

"I really think you should call your primary care doctor, see if you can get a prescription for the nausea. Then maybe you can eat more and get your weight back up."

He sighed. "If I think of it, I'll call him in the morning."

"I'll remind you." She finished the backrub, lay down, and pulled him down with her.

He laid his head on her chest, his ear over her heart, and let out a shaky breath as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Thanks, Linda. Love you."

"Love you more," she whispered.

"Love you most," he finished, and kept his eyes open against the memories and faces that wanted to invade his dreams.

It was going to be another long night.


	21. Chapter 21

He pulled into the parking-lot of his precinct at 8:29 a.m.

It _had_ been a long night; he'd lain awake for hours, and when he did finally fall asleep, it was only to face nightmares. Linda had had to wake him three times.

The morning dragged by, and he was glaring at the sandwich Linda had packed for his lunch when his phone buzzed. _Dinner and darts tonight? My treat_. It was Jamie. Linda must have suggested this to him when she talked to the family on Sunday.

He sighed. _Sure. I get off at 5, meet you at Cooper's at 5:30?_

 _Sounds great_.

* * *

Jamie had gotten to the bar before Danny, and he watched surreptitiously as his older brother came in. Danny had lost even more weight; there were dark circles under his eyes and his face was pallid under his stubble; and while he was still dressed in his suit, there was a disheveled look to him, as if he'd worn that same shirt two days in a row.

"Where are these darts?"

"Dinner first, then we play." He wanted to make sure Danny got some food in him before they started to really talk.

Danny huffed. "O, all right."

He was pleased to see Danny eat all of his salad, most of his burger, and half of his fries. As a concession to Danny's not being able to drink alcohol, he'd ordered ginger ale for both of them.

Then they headed for the dart board.

Danny lost the first game so easily it was like he wasn't even trying.

Jamie walked up to the board, pulled out the darts, then stood next to his brother again. "You're off your game tonight, Danny. What's going on?"

He threw his first dart, but his attention was on Danny, and he missed.

His older brother shrugged. "Nothing. Long day."

Jamie threw his next two darts, then walked up to the board. "You're riding a desk, Danny. I get that it's boring, but…what's really going on?"

He pulled the darts out, handed them to Danny, who shook his head. "You don't wanna…"

"I asked because I do wanna know. What's going on, Danny?"

Danny shrugged, threw the dart. "Nothing you need to worry about."

"Less than two weeks ago I found out that my older brother is depressed and suicidal. Excuse me for worrying." Danny threw the second dart, missed, cursed under his breath. "Even a blind man could see how much you're hurting, Danny."

"I'm…" Danny choked on whatever he'd been about to say, threw the last of the darts so blindly it hit the edge of the board and clattered to the floor.

A car backfired outside, and Danny moved backwards, squeezing in between the chair and the table, until his back was against the wall.

His eyes swept over Jamie twice, unseeing, wild; and Jamie felt a stab of fear. His older brother—hot-tempered, but otherwise level-headed—was having a flashback.

Slowly, he moved next to his brother, in his line of vision. "Danny. Can you hear me?"

The older man kept staring, and Jamie felt another pang—of relief—that Danny was on modified. This would have been a lot scarier if Danny had had his gun.

He kept talking quietly, for what felt like hours.

Then he realized Danny was holding his breath. Damn all the rules about not touching people when they were in the middle of a flashback!

He put his hand on Danny's shoulder, rubbed it gently. "Take a breath, Danny. Come on, you've gotta breathe, brother."

Danny's hand shot up to grip his wrist, but then he took a shaky, shuddering breath. "Good job, Danny. Can you hear me?"

Danny let go of his wrist, his hand dropping back to his side. He blinked. "Jamie? What…what-the-hell happened?"

"Easy, Danny. You know where you are?"

"Cooper's, throwing darts with you." He let out a shaky breath. "Dammit. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. You just grabbed my wrist when I touched you, I'm fine, Danny." He supposed he should be glad that's all Danny had done; with his training…he could've done a lot worse. "Are you okay?"

"Sorry you had to see that, kid. I'm good now." He stepped away from the wall, swayed, and Jamie put his hand out to steady him.

Danny flinched away from his hand.

His eyes were glassy, and Jamie said quietly, "I'll drive you home. Give me a sec."

"No, you don't…"

"Can you honestly tell me you're good to get behind the wheel right now?"

Danny stalked towards the door, and Jamie hurried after him. "Danny, wait!"

"I'm not driving home right this second, kid." He held his phone up. "I'm just gonna make a phone call," he said, and went outside.

Jamie got in front of him so he couldn't get in the car.

"Doc told me to call him if I needed to. So I'm gonna talk to him until I'm good to drive home."

"And you actually listened to your shrink? Since when did you get so self-aware?" Jamie asked, and instantly regretted it when he saw the walls going up over Danny's eyes. "Danny, I'm sorry, I didn't…"

"No, you're right. Serves me right for letting my family know I was seeing a shrink. Thanks for dinner, kid. Now please go to hell,"

He shoved Jamie out of the way, unlocked the car, got in, and slammed the door shut.

Jamie slowly walked to his car. He'd had a chance to be there for his brother, and he'd blown it.

He got in his own car, dialed Linda. "Hey, Jamie, everything okay?"

"No. I screwed up, Linda. We had dinner, we were playing darts; Danny was losing, as usual; then a car backfired and he had a flashback. I offered to drive him home, but he said he was gonna make a phone call, admitted it was his shrink, and I…stuck my foot in my mouth."

"What did you say to him?" Her tone was icy, and he flinched. Hadn't heard that tone since he and Jamie got into it a few years back on Mother's Day.

"I…asked him when he'd gotten so self-aware. He thanked me for dinner and told me to go to hell."

"O, you definitely screwed up there, Jamie. For heaven's sake, weren't you listening to me at all on Sunday? I told you not to push his buttons. He's teetering on the edge right now, Jamie—but at least he's talking to Dawson, he's opening up. Do me a favor and stick around 'till he leaves; then follow him to make sure he comes home."

"Linda, I don't know…"

"If you want to make this better, you need to do this for me, Jamie. Make sure he comes home to me, and doesn't go back inside that pub and get drunk and drive his car into a tree. Can you do that, Jameson?"

He winced. "Yes, I can do that. I'll follow him home, I promise. I'm sorry, Linda."

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to. Give Danny a day or two to settle down, then reach out, apologize, and offer another game."

She hung up, and Jamie looked at the blank screen of his phone. That couldn't have gone any worse.

* * *

Danny locked the car doors, leaned his head back against the headrest, and closed his eyes. Dammit.

He'd lied when he'd told Jamie that he was fine. For ten minutes or however the hell long that had lasted, he'd been back in Fallujah. Even now he was shaking inside, his stomach was churning, and he'd had to fight to keep his breathing steady so Jamie didn't notice.

If this didn't stop, he wasn't going to get his shield back.

That thought made his stomach give another lurch, and he unlocked the car and made a mad dash for the garbage can, where he promptly threw up every bite of that blasted burger.

"Dammit," he muttered, wiped his mouth, and got back in the car.

When he could breathe again, he called Doc. "Hey, Danny, what's wrong?"

"Sorry to bother you."

"It's okay, Danny. What's wrong?"

"I…went out for dinner and darts with Jamie tonight. A car backfired or something, and I had a flashback. Jamie offered to drive me home. I told him I was gonna call you, I'd be fine after I talked with you."

"You did the right thing by not trying to drive home while you're still so shaken. And, yes, I can hear it in your voice. Can you tell me about your flashback?"

"Fallujah." There was so much more to it than that, but the one word was really all he could talk about now—here, in his car, in the parking-lot of a bar.

"What brought you out of it?"

"I don't know. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and I grabbed his wrist."

"What did Jamie say when you told him you were going to call me?"

He shrugged, even though Doc couldn't see him. "He did what I woulda done—asked me when I'd gotten so self-aware. I told him to go to hell."

"That was very insensitive of Jamie; he didn't see how much these memories and flashbacks are hurting you, did he?"

His mouth went dry, and he shook his head.

"What was happening in Fallujah, in your flashback?"

He let out a shaky breath, squeezed his eyes shut. "We were going through the town, house-by-house, clearing it. It was my turn to go in first. I got shot in the shoulder, minor wound."

"It must have hurt. What else happened, Danny?"

"Doc…"

"Danny, I know you've been shot on the job. You hear cars backfiring pretty often in the city. What happened this one time in Fallujah that you're still remembering it nine years later?"

"I can't…" He shuddered. "If I'm…so messed up that a car backfiring sends me into a flashback…how am I gonna get my shield back I can't do the job like this. I'm shaky, and all I wanna do right now is walk back inside the bar and drink until the memories are dead and I'm numb."

"Drinking yourself into a stupor isn't going to cure your PTSD. And you can't mix alcohol with the Zoloft."

"I _know_ that, Doc! I didn't say I was going to do it; I said I _wanted_ to!"

"Okay, I'm just reminding you, Danny." He paused. "I think what you need right now is to go home and see your wife and your boys. Remind yourself why you came home, remind yourself that you deserved to come home."

He flinched, but he was too tired to argue that point with Doc, so he simply nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome, Danny. I'll see you Thursday."

"Copy that," he whispered, and hung up.

* * *

As soon as he pulled into the driveway, the front door opened. He got out of the car, trudged inside, then leaned back against the door as Linda wrapped him in her arms. "Danny, what's that smell? You know you can't drink alcohol while you're on the Zoloft…"

He pulled away and walked over to the couch, sat down. "Really, Linda? The first words out of your mouth are have I been drinking?" He shook his head. He was too tired to fight with her tonight.

"I started thinking about how there's no way in hell I'll get my shield back, and I puked." Honestly, losing his dinner had more to do with the flashback, than with thinking about losing his shield, but she didn't need to know that.

She reached for him, and he didn't pull away when she kissed him. "I'm sorry, Danny. I shouldn't have jumped to that conclusion." He nodded, let out a shaky breath.

"I won't ask if you're okay, 'cause I can tell you're not. Go shower, I'll heat up some of the casserole for you."

He stood up. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

He was halfway up the stairs when he remembered what he'd wanted to tell her. "I called the doctor on my lunch break. He wants to see me at 8 a.m. Thursday. That'll put me working the 10-6 desk shift, and I'll see Dawson right afterwards."

"Good. That's good, Danny. You really need to put some weight back on, babe."

He nodded, and trudged up the stairs for a hot shower.


	22. Chapter 22

After his shower, he sat down on the bed. He didn't want to go downstairs in case Linda was still mad at him, but she wouldn't be happy if he didn't eat something. How could she have thought he'd gone and gotten drunk?

He shook his head, and startled when she sat down next to him. "Easy, Danny, it's just me." He let out a shaky breath, returned to staring at the floor. "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions. I chewed Jamie out for doing that, and then…I did the same thing. I'm sorry, Danny," she said again. "Forgive me?"

He nodded, let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. I…I'm sorry for snapping at you. Forgive me, please?" he whispered.

She reached for his hand. "Always, Danny."

"I hate fighting with you."

"I know. Me too. I'm sorry." She slipped her arm around his shoulders. "I was so worried that what Jamie said…was going to make you quit therapy and lose all the progress you've made, and…I let my fear get the best of me. I'm sorry, Danny."

He pulled away, leaned his face in his hands. "Progress? What progress? Having a flashback when a car backfires isn't progress."

She reached for him, took his face in her hands so he couldn't look away. "Calling Doc, coming home to me, _not_ getting drunk…that's progress, Danny. And I am proud as hell of you for it."

He pulled away, shook his head. "Doesn't feel like progress. I can't work if I'm having flashbacks. If I had one in the field…it could get me, or my partner, or innocent civilians, killed."

"Danny, you still have four more full weeks on modified. By that time, the Zoloft will have kicked in; it will help with your PTSD symptoms, with your mood. Give it time, babe."

He sighed, and she rubbed at his back. "Do you want to come downstairs, try to eat something?"

"Not hungry."

"What about something light? A few scrambled eggs?"

He shrugged. "Okay. Where are the boys?"

"Over at the Keenan's. Joanne will have them home in time for bed."

"How's Michael doing?" With everything going on in the past month, he hadn't had time to reach out to the kid who had insisted—rightly, it turned out—that his dad hadn't committed suicide, and had begged him to look into it.

"He's doing okay. Still talks about the Rangers game you took him to—was that a year ago? You did good, Danny."

He shrugged. "I did my job. I guess I'll try that scrambled egg."

"You did more than your job—because you always go above and beyond. And that is one of the things I love about you." She kissed him, stood up, pulling him with her. "Come on, let's get some food in you."

He managed one scrambled egg and a piece of toast, took the Zoloft with a glass of milk.

He wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and shut the world out; but that would just mean even more time to have nightmares; so he stayed downstairs, fixed the foosball table—Sean had broken it again—and looked over the boys' homework when they got home.

By 9:30, he was dragging…stupid nightmares the night before…and he went to bed.

* * *

After Linda had woken him from a nightmare for the second time, he sat up, and pulled on his bathrobe.

"Where're you going?" Linda asked, sitting up.

"Downstairs. No use trying to sleep any longer."

"Danny, it's…2 a.m." She stood, padded over to him, and sat down. She leaned her head on his shoulder, slipped her arm around him. "If you want to talk about it, I'm listening."

"I can't." He shuddered, remembering. The nightmares hadn't been his usual ones that he could probably re-tell with his eyes closed. Instead, the nightmares had been voices…the disembodied voices of Michael Oates and John Russell and Bobby LaRue and everyone else telling him that he had betrayed them by coming home alive.

He was trembling now, and she tightened her hold on him. "Okay, Danny, but I'm here. You're not alone. You don't have to fight this alone."

He had no choice but to fight this alone; he couldn't burden her with any more words about how he didn't deserve to be alive, didn't deserve to be home. That was his burden to carry, and his alone.

"If you can't tell me, at least tell Doc…please, Danny."

The mere thought of talking to Doc about this made his stomach churn, and he pulled away from her, turned on the light, and picked up the brochures that lay crumpled on his bedside table where he'd thrown them the night before. "No point in trying to sleep; I might as well do my homework."

An hour later, they'd settled on a combination of exercise and sunshine—in the form of a walk around the block each morning. He highly doubted it would help any more than the Zoloft was helping (meaning: not at all), but Doc knew what he was talking about, so he'd give it a shot.


	23. Chapter 23

Wednesday and Thursday he went on "power-walks" with Linda in the early morning sunshine; trudged his way through eight hours a day of desk-duty, and meals that he didn't want to eat; and after work Thursday, he drove to Doc's.

He'd gotten there just in time for his 6:30 appointment, but he sat in his car instead of going inside.

Maybe he should call Doc, tell him something had come up at home and he couldn't make it.

If he went home early, he would have to tell Linda he'd cancelled his appointment—after she had told him she was proud of him for sticking with therapy.

If he didn't go home early, he'd have to find something to do for an hour, then lie to his wife about having gone to therapy—not a good idea.

It definitely wasn't a good idea for his health and well-being if he had an hour to kill.

The only option left was to go inside.

If he told Doc the truth, that would be the end of therapy.

If he didn't tell Doc the truth, that would be the end of him.

With a sigh, he got out of his car.

Inside, he greeted Doc, sat down as carelessly as possible. "Hey, Doc, thanks for letting me mess with your schedule."

"No problem, Danny. It's good to see you. How'd your doctor's appointment go?"

He shrugged. "Got a prescription for the nausea. The doc asked if it might be psychosomatic, and I told him he didn't know the half of it. He says he won't clear me to return to full duty until I put all twenty pounds back on."

"It probably is a pretty good mix of side effects from the Zoloft, and psychosomatic nausea—your body rejecting food because your mind thinks you don't deserve to live."

He flinched, kept his eyes on his shoes. Coming here had been a mistake. He should have told Doc he couldn't make it.

"Danny, where's your head at?"

He shook his head. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to me, Danny."

He raised his head to glare at the younger man. "Why the hell do you care, Doc? First time I met you, I insulted you, I interrupted your group session…why the hell do you care?"

"I care because you deserve healing, Danny."

"Dammit, Doc, no I don't! I don't deserve healing, and I sure as hell don't deserve to be alive!" He stood up so quickly his chair toppled over, and he stalked over to the door. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come."

His hand was on the doorknob when Doc said, "If you leave now, like this, I will call 911 and have you admitted for a 72-hour psych hold. I will also call Dr. Forsythe and tell him that you are not fit for duty and that you need to remain on modified assignment indefinitely. I don't think you want either of those things to happen, Danny."

He whirled. "A 72-hour hold? What the hell, Doc?!"

"You just told me you're feeling suicidal. Talk to me, Danny; tell me what happened between Monday night and now, let's talk through this. Let me help you."

He stalked back to the overturned chair, picked it up, and sat down. "If I tell you where my head's at…all the dark thoughts I've been having…you're not going to want to help me."

* * *

The pain in Danny's voice made Alex wince, but he kept his voice calm as he said, "I do want to help you, Danny. I'd like you to tell me about the dark thoughts. Let me bear them with you."

Danny was quiet for several minutes; then, as if reading from a script he'd memorized, he said, "I should have died out there in that godforsaken hellhole. Every day I'm back here—alive, with my wife and my boys, living a pretty comfortable life—is a betrayal of the memory of the guys we lost over there."

He paused for a breath. Then, very quietly, he said, "I should be six feet under—and no stupid happy pills and no stupid therapy is going to change my mind. This is a waste of time."

Alex leaned forward. "Danny, look at me, please."

Slowly, the detective raised his head. The blank look in his eyes made Alex shudder. "You are not a waste of time, Danny. You deserve my time here in this office. You deserve healing. You deserve to live."

He could tell his words were just bouncing off Danny, so he decided to try a different tactic. "Four and a half weeks ago, you left your family's Sunday dinner to try to save the life of a fellow veteran—because you understood what he was going through. You put a lot of emotional effort into trying to talk John Russell down safely. Why did you do that if he thought he didn't deserve to live? Why didn't you just let him jump?"

Danny flinched. "Because it was my job. Because Tommy needed his father. Because John didn't deserve to die; he needed help."

"So, you don't think John was correct in thinking that his family would be better off without him?"

"No."

"You're saying John was making an error in judgment. Does that mean he was crazy?"

Danny sighed, shifted in the chair. "No; he was suffering from PTSD; he wasn't thinking clearly."

"You used the word 'suffering.' Was John in pain?"

The detective nodded.

"I know you hate to admit this, Danny, but you are in pain also. Is it possible that you are making an error in judgment when you think you deserve the depression and the PTSD?"

He shrugged. "You sound like my wife. Linda said pretty much the same thing Monday night."

Alex let a smile flit across his face, and rose to go get a bottle of water. "Well then, what do you need me for?"

* * *

Danny tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn't expand.

If Doc ended these sessions…he didn't think he could go on. As pathetic as it sounded, being on modified—not having his gun—and being able to talk to Doc about the memories and the flashbacks and the nightmares, were the only damn things keeping him alive right now.

His ears were ringing and his heart was pounding. He needed air but he couldn't breathe, and it was making black spots dance before his eyes.

"I'm going to touch you, Danny," said a voice. The hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he took a gasping breath. Doc was sitting next to him. "I'm sorry, Danny; I should not have teased you like that; that was unprofessional of me. I'm not going anywhere. Take a breath, Danny."

He took a shaky breath. "Why…? I didn't…"

"I heard your breathing change, and I could see you were starting to panic."

"What…what just…?" He shook his head.

"You had a panic attack, Danny. I am sorry for causing it. Can you tell me why the thought of ending these sessions right now made you panic?"

"Because…I won't have anyone to talk to about the memories and the flashbacks, and I… can't handle them."

"Yes, you can handle them. I know they're scary and I know they hurt, but there are techniques for grounding yourself, for distracting yourself. I'll remind you of those later. Try to match my breathing, okay?"

He nodded, focused on the rise and fall of Doc's shoulders. Slowly, his breathing settled. "Sorry," he muttered.

"It's okay, Danny."

* * *

Alex waited until Danny's breathing had settled before he asked, "Is it just the memories and the flashbacks that are making you think about ending your life?" When the older man didn't say anything, Alex asked carefully, "Danny, how bad would things have to get for you to take your own life?"

Danny looked shocked that he had had the temerity to ask.

"I want to know so we can make a battle plan to keep things from getting that bad."

"I don't…the fight with Jamie, fighting with Linda…"

"So, losing your family is a trigger. What did you fight with Linda about?"

Danny crossed his arms over his chest—a defensive posture, Alex noted. Slowly, painfully, he told Alex what had happened.

When the detective stopped speaking, Alex said carefully, "It sounds to me like she was scared stiff for you. She shouldn't have jumped to that conclusion, but her anger…was hiding her fear. Remember we talked about that?"

Danny nodded, and Alex went on, "You know Linda loves you."

"But I keep…" He shook his head. "I'm not the tough cop she married; I'm a pathetic, panicking…mess."

"Having emotions means you're human. Allowing yourself to feel them is a lot healthier than stuffing them inside or drinking yourself into oblivion. I am proud of you for calling me the other night instead of turning to what sounds like an old coping mechanism and drinking yourself numb."

Danny looked away at that. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day and we were going to have a quiet romantic weekend at home; my dad was gonna take the boys; but she's not going to want to spend time with me."

"Has she been avoiding you this week?"

"No. We talked about our fight Tuesday. She's worried about me, but she shouldn't be; I'm supposed to worry about her—that's my job."

"Marriage is a two-way street, Danny; give-and-take; you can't give all the time without taking. Let her worry about you. I want you to call her right now, tell her what you just told me about your fears of disappointing her. We'll see if her response proves your theory that she's tired of you."

* * *

Danny glared at him, but pulled out his phone, dialed. "Hey, Danny, what's wrong?"

"It's…I'm still with Doc, I…I'm…." He shook his head. He couldn't lie to her and tell her he was okay. "Doc wanted me to call you, homework assignment before I leave class."

He let out a shaky breath. "I…I'm not doing too good tonight, Linda." The words tripped off his tongue before he could stop them, and he cursed. So much for keeping her from worrying. "I…I know I'm not the tough macho cop you married, and I'm sorry you have to put up with me being an emotional wreck. I…"

"Daniel Reagan, listen to me, and listen well." The ice in her voice stopped him in his tracks. "I love you. All of you—the tough cop, the hurting veteran, the struggling detective. You're the love of my life, Danny, no matter what. What do I need to do to prove that to you?"

"Can you…?" His voice broke, and he cursed. "I can't drive home tonight, Linda. Can you…come?"

"I'll be there as soon as possible. I'll call Joanne, see if she can watch the boys tonight; I'm sure they'd love that. Let me talk to Doc. I love you, Danny."

"Love you more," he whispered. "Hang on." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Linda's coming here. She wants to talk to you."

"Do I have your permission to tell her what we've discussed tonight?"

He nodded.

Doc took the phone, walked into the corner. His voice was low, and Danny couldn't make out what he was saying.

Then Doc was next to him, pressing the phone into his hand. "You did the right thing, Danny, asking Linda to come here. Tell me why you didn't think you should drive home."

He swallowed hard, then slowly opened his mouth to let Doc bear a little bit more of his pain.


	24. Chapter 24

He was still trying to find the words when his phone buzzed. "Sorry, Doc." He glanced at it. "It's Linda. I need to take this."

He rose, walked over to the door. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Danny; just a change of plans. Your dad just called; I'd forgotten that he'd offered to take the boys for two nights. He's on his way here, and he'll pick up all three of us, drop me off at Doc's, then take the boys to his place. We can pick them up at Sunday dinner."

He nodded. "O…okay. Tell dad thanks. Love you."

"Love you more," she said fervently, and he leaned into the words.

"Love you most," he whispered, and hung up. "Sorry about that, Doc." He quickly explained what was going on to the younger man.

"That sounds like a good plan all around, Danny; it'll save Linda the cab fare, and give both of you some time to talk tonight, without worrying about the boys overhearing."

He nodded, and Doc rose. "I'm going to have a cup of herbal tea; want some?"

He shrugged. He didn't like tea, but a hot beverage sounded good. "Sure. Thanks."

Doc was quiet for a few minutes while he got the Styrofoam cups and the hot water and the tea-bags, then, almost casually, he asked, "Why did you tell Linda you couldn't drive home?"

He shook his head. "What does it matter?"

"Tell me why you don't think you should drive home, and then I'll tell you why it matters." Doc walked over with the cup of tea.

He took it, let out a shaky breath, stared at his shoes. "I'm afraid that if I drive home, alone, I might do something stupid."

Doc sat down, blew on his tea to cool it. "Good job, Danny." He frowned, wondering why in the hell that was good; and Doc went on, "Recognizing that it's not safe for you to drive home…reaching out, asking Linda to come…is progress."

He took a sip of his tea. It burned his mouth, and he cursed. "Knowing I'm too unstable to drive home…how the hell is that progress, Doc?"

"It's progress because you're taking measures to keep yourself safe. That tells me that you want to live."

He flinched, tried to look anywhere but at Doc; but Doc's eyes were boring holes in him, and reluctantly, he looked up at the younger man. "I'm sorry you're in so much pain, Danny."

The sympathy in Doc's voice broke him, and he looked away.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but he couldn't. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. He took another, slower, sip of tea.

"Danny, depression and PTSD lie to you, make you believe things that aren't true. You told John Russell, didn't you, that all that anguish inside him—feeling that his family would be better off without him—was a result of the combat, of the PTSD? Similarly, all the despair inside you—feeling that you don't deserve to be alive—is a result of your depression…and the depression is lying to you. Have you thought about that?"

He shook his head.

"As hard as it is for you to believe this right now, Danny, you deserve to live. When Linda gets here, I want to talk with both of you about how to handle the pain safely."

"Homework," he muttered. "Always homework."

"Well, I wouldn't be a good teacher if I didn't give my student homework, would I?"

The teasing tone in Doc's voice tugged at his heart. Against his will, his lips curled into…was that a smile? "Guess not. Can I…have a minute, Doc? Just to sit here and not think?"

"If you need to, yes. But I don't want you to get stuck in your head, Danny; don't go spiraling down any dark holes."

"You can't spiral when you've already drowned," he muttered.

Doc rose, and he shuddered. "I'm not going anywhere, Danny; I'm just going to put some music on, and finish putting away these files. Do you like classical music?"

He shrugged. "Put on whatever you want."

He had always thought classical music was quiet and calm and relaxing; but the CD Doc put in started with the clash of cymbals, and kept up the peppy tones for too long. Must be Doc's attempt to not let him be _too_ alone with his thoughts.

He wasn't sure how long the clashing overly-cheerful music had been going on, when he heard a knock on the door.

Doc rose from the filing cabinet. "I'll let you and Linda have a few minutes to talk; then I want to talk to both of you. Is that okay?"

He shrugged. Doc walked over to the door, opened it. There were a few whispered words, and then Doc slipped out of the room.

* * *

His boys ran in, and he cursed. He hadn't known they were coming. They didn't need to see him like this. He stood up as they ran towards him.

"Dad! I haven't seen you all day!" Jack exclaimed, and tackled him.

"We had a fire drill in school today! It was awesome!" Sean yelled, and he shushed him.

"Are you okay, Dad?" Jack asked, looking up at him with worried eyes.

He pulled them into a bear-hug. "I love you. I love both of you so much," he whispered thickly. He released them, cleared his throat. "Get outta here. Behave for your grandfather."

They ran off, and he realized he was shaking. Then Linda's arms were around him, and he buried his face in her shoulder.

His face was wet when he finally pulled away. He swiped at his eyes, stumbled blindly towards the couch in the corner. "Th…thanks for coming," he whispered.

"Of course I came, Danny." She sat down next to him, took her hand in his. "What happened?"

He shook his head. "I can't stop thinking that…I should have been one of the guys we lost in Fallujah. I shouldn't be here. I don't deserve to be here." He let out a shaky breath. "I almost skipped Doc, but I…I didn't want to disappoint you, after you told me you're proud of me for going to therapy. And I was…I was really scared of what I might do if I had an hour to kill."

Another, shakier breath. Telling her this would scare her, but he couldn't keep it from her. "I almost walked out on Doc five minutes into the session, but he…he said if I left then, he'd have me admitted for a 72-hour psych hold."

She gasped, but didn't say anything; just squeezed his hand.

He let out a shaky breath. "You and the boys…talking with Doc…not having my gun… are the only things keeping me alive right now."

She released his hand, slipped her arm around his back. "I'm here, Danny. Okay? I'm not going anywhere. I'll do whatever you need me to do. If you think you shouldn't be alone, we'll figure out a way to make sure you're never alone." She rubbed at his back. "I'm not going anywhere," she said again.

He nodded, let her hold him as they both listened to the calm music now playing on the CD.

There was a knock on the door. He pulled away from her, sat up. "Yeah?" he called.

Doc came back in, turned the music off, and moved his chair so he was facing them. He sat down. "Danny, can you tell Linda what your trigger was?"

He blinked, confused, and Doc said, "You told me about two things that happened this week, both of which touched upon a deep-seated fear you have. That fear, combined with memories of Iraq, is the main thing that pushed you to the brink tonight."

He leaned his chin in his hands. He couldn't look at Linda while he said this. "Fighting with Jamie, and then with you…" He shook his head. "The thought of losing you, losing my family…scares the hell out of me. Without…without this family, without you…I could have been another Michael Oates, another John Russell."

She reached for his hand, forcing him to turn to look at her. He cursed when he saw the tears in her eyes. He'd made her cry, and it was all his fault. "I'm not going anywhere, Danny. I got mad at you because…I was scared of losing you. You've been so distant lately…I know it's because you're in pain and you don't want any of us to worry about you…but I'm so afraid the pain's going to swallow you up."

She reached for his face, and he realized vaguely it was wet—again. Dammit. He pulled away, swiped angrily at the tears.

"What can I do to make the pain go away, Danny?"

"I don't know," he whispered. He swiped at his eyes again, looked over at his psychologist.

"I wish I could tell both of you that I had a magic formula to ease the pain." Doc shrugged half-heartedly. "Unfortunately, I don't. But I can give you some strategies to help deal with it."

He half-listened as Doc blathered on about grounding techniques and distraction and reaching out for help. He _was_ reaching out, dammit! What did Doc think this therapy session was? Playtime?

"There's a saying, and it might sound like a platitude, but don't sue me just yet, Danny. The saying is 'Suicide does not end the chances of life getting worse; suicide eliminates the possibility of life getting better.'"

Next to him Linda flinched.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me, Danny."

He glared at the younger man.

Finally, Doc spoke. "I can tell that you're angry, Danny. Can you tell me why—what are you feeling underneath the anger?"

He cursed. This would be a lot easier if Doc would just yell at him, tell him he didn't deserve healing and he was a waste of time.

He stood up, took an angry turn around the room, then stalked over to the window. "That blasted phrase…what if it takes too long and you…Doc, Linda, my family…get tired of helping me, get tired of waiting for life to get better?" He swallowed hard. "I guess I'm scared stiff that you'll leave me to deal with the pain on my own."

"I'm not going anywhere," said a voice in his ear, and he flinched. He hadn't heard Linda stand up, hadn't noticed she was next to him. He was definitely losing it. She slipped an arm around him, turned him away from the window. "Come sit down, Danny."

He followed her back over to the couch. "I'm not going anywhere either, Danny. I will help you however it is in my power to do so. But you need to do some things to help yourself—not by yourself, not in isolation from therapy and from your family—but for times when you're alone and you realize your thoughts are spiraling."

He shook his head, looked up at Doc. He couldn't even drive himself home; how the hell was he supposed to help himself? "What's the homework, Doc?"

"I want you to make a list of five things you like about yourself, and five reasons to keep living. I want you to do this without any input from Linda; and don't spend more than ten minutes, total, on both lists. Linda, I'd like you to make a list of five things you like about Danny, and five reasons your life would be emptier without him; again, no input from Danny, and no more than ten minutes. Then compare the lists and talk about them."

"Come on, Doc, five things I like about myself? I'm not a teenage girl with self-esteem issues! And how the hell is that gonna help?"

Doc didn't react to his outburst; he just continued, calmly, "I want you to keep all four of these lists in your pocket. The next time you start thinking that you can't handle the pain and that suicide is the only answer, read over those lists. Will you do that for me?"

He sighed. He didn't want to let Doc down. "Yeah, sure," he whispered.

Doc rose. "I know tomorrow's Valentine's Day, and you two have a quiet weekend planned; but I want you to check in with me on your lunch break; give me a quick call or text. Will you do that, Danny?"

He nodded, stood up. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome, Danny. I'll see you Monday."

"Yeah," he whispered, and followed his wife out of the office.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt. If you're drowning, please reach out!**   
**Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255.**   
**You matter and your life is worth living!**

* * *

He had to get away.

The pain was crushing him.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

Linda didn't understand.

Doc tried but he _couldn't_.

When Linda turned to get on the elevator (Doc's office was on the second floor of a six-story building), he turned to the door marked "Stairs." He climbed…one flight, then another, then another.

After eight flights, the stairs dead-ended at a door marked "Roof."

He opened it, startled when an alarm went off.

What the hell?!

There was a bright orange door-stopper next to the wall; he shoved it in the door. Always have an escape plan. Except he didn't have his gun anymore, and the bad guys he was running from couldn't be killed by a bullet.

The chest-high, graffiti-covered wall reminded him of the roof on which he had failed to save John Russell.

He couldn't breathe.

He needed air, and he pulled his tie off, threw it down.

He walked towards the wall. Maybe up here, away from people and their questions and away from memories and flashbacks and guns…maybe he could block the pain out. Maybe he could breathe.

Closing his eyes against the dizzying sight, he climbed up onto the wall.

* * *

Alex Dawson was locking his office when he heard a voice scream "Danny!" He dropped his briefcase, ran down the hall. Linda was standing outside the elevator, sobbing.

"What happened? Where's Danny?"

"He…he…I turned my back to hit the elevator button…five seconds, it wasn't even five seconds, Doc…and then…he was gone! What if he…?

She leaned against the wall. He put a hand on her shoulder, shook her gently. "Linda, I need you to breathe, and call your father-in-law. Okay? Call your father-in-law and stay down here until he gets here. Can you do that?"

She straightened, opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. "I promise you I will do everything in my power to bring Danny down safely. But if he sees you like this…he can't handle his own emotional pain right now; he won't be able to handle yours. Can you do that?"

She nodded.

"Tell me what you're going to do," Alex said gently.

"Stay here and…call Frank."

"That's right. Thank you." Alex ran to the stairwell and ran up the stairs.

The door marked "Roof" was ajar…propped open with a garishly bright orange door-stopper. That spoke of deliberation. Alex hoped that was a good sign.

He walked slowly on to the roof.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Danny sitting on a chest-high wall, facing him. One wrong move, and he would tumble backwards to his death.

Alex kept his voice quiet. "Danny. It's just Doc. I'm just getting some fresh air, thought maybe you and I could talk."

"Talk?" the detective scoffed. "That's all you ever want to do—talk! Let's try _talk_ therapy, let's _talk_ about it, let's _talk_ about how you're feeling. I'm done talking!"

"What do you need me to do?"

"Leave me the hell alone."

"I can't do that, Danny." He was at the wall now, near enough to reach out and grab Danny, but he didn't make the move.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you're my friend. You're in pain, and I want to help the pain go away."

"You can't."

"Danny, you just told me, twenty minutes ago, that you were afraid Linda and I would leave you alone in your pain. I'm here because I don't want you to be alone. Because you're not alone."

Danny cursed vehemently.

"Ten minutes ago, you were going to go home with your wife, and now you're sitting on a wall six stories above the ground. What happened, Danny?"

"I had to get away."

"What were you trying to get away from?"

"The pain, dammit!" He pounded the wall with his fists. The movement made him sway on top of the wall, and Alex saw a flash of fear across his face. Detective Daniel Reagan was scared of heights.

Alex grabbed his arm, but Danny didn't seem to notice.

He kicked the wall. "John Russell's face…in that split second before he fell…it was almost as if…as if he was changing his mind. But it was too late."

"It's not too late for you, Danny. You've carried all this pain for so long, it's time to get help to deal with the pain. You need help, Danny. You know that, don't you?"

"I need the pain to stop."

"This isn't the way to make it stop, Danny. I'll help you; I promise you, I won't leave your side until someone physically forces me to. Linda will help you." He held his other hand out. "Just trust me, Danny."

He couldn't breathe for what felt like hours, and then Danny held his hand out, gripped it so hard it hurt. "Okay, okay, I've got you, Danny."

Slowly, painfully, Danny inched forward on the wall, slid to the rooftop.

The minute his feet hit the roof, he doubled over, and vomited.

Alex caught him before he could fall, helped him sit down. "Have you eaten anything today?"

The detective shrugged.

"I need a verbal answer, Danny."

"Breakfast."

Alex flinched. It was close to 9 p.m.; that meant Danny hadn't eaten in over 12 hours. Herbal tea didn't count.

Very gently, he pinched some of the skin on the back of Danny's hand. It stayed pinched. "You're dehydrated, you need IV fluids."

"No! No hospitals!"

"Why not?"

"I don't wanna be locked up!"

"Just the ER, then, get some fluids in you."

"No…"

"Danny, look at me."

Slowly, the detective raised his head. Even in the dim light from streetlights many feet below, Alex could see that his eyes were blank, and he shuddered. "You're dehydrated; you need fluids. The only place you can get those fluids is the ER. You know I'm right, don't you?"

Danny sighed, nodded.

"Okay. We'll get some fluids, some sugar, in you. They're going to ask you some questions; why you haven't eaten all day, how'd you get dehydrated, what happened to bring you to the ER; and I want you to answer them honestly. So I'll let you practice the first one on me."

Danny looked away.

"Was this…coming up here on the roof, sitting on the wall…was this a suicide attempt?"

"I don't know," Danny whispered. "I mean…maybe. I just…couldn't handle the pain anymore."

"Danny, if I hadn't come up here…would you have jumped?"

Danny froze. Alex was about ready to remind him to breathe when he said very, very quietly, "Yes."

"Thank you for telling me," Alex said in the same quiet tone.

Danny was talking; he wasn't shutting down, so Alex thought he'd keep on with the script. "Have you wished you were dead, or wished you could go to sleep and never wake up?"

He knew the answer to that, and hoped to a God he hadn't prayed to in years, that the detective answered honestly.

"Yes," Danny whispered.

"Have you actually had any thoughts of killing yourself?"

Danny closed his eyes and nodded, but Alex didn't push him for a verbal answer. He was on the verge of complete collapse.

"Have you thought about how you might do this?"

Another nod.

"Have you had these thoughts and had some intention of acting on these thoughts?"

Danny shrugged.

"Have you started to work out the details of how to kill yourself?"

Danny sighed heavily. "No."

 _Thank God for that_ , Alex thought.

"Do you intend to carry out the plan?"

"I don't know! I just want the pain to stop."

"This last question refers to your whole life. Have you ever done anything, started to do anything, or prepared anything to end your life?"

"Once, 9 years ago," Danny whispered, and Alex frowned. He hadn't mentioned that once over the past four weeks.

"Thank you for telling me."

Alex stood up, and Danny shuddered.

"I'm not going to leave you, Danny; I just stood up to stretch. Will you come downstairs with me, please?"

He held his hand out. For a second Danny froze, then he took it.

Danny rose shakily, swayed, and Alex caught him before he could fall. "Woah there, Danny. I've got you. Lean on me, okay?"

Slowly, falteringly, they made their way back to the door. Danny froze at the door. "It's okay, Danny. Take your time."

It took several minutes, but finally Danny lifted one foot, stepped over the threshold. "You're doing good, Danny."

It took them ten minutes to get down the eight flights of stairs to the second floor.

Alex nearly hit Linda with the door when he pushed it open.

She didn't seem to notice, just threw her arms around Danny. His knees buckled and he collapsed, Linda holding him the whole time.

Alex straightened.

Frank looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Alex shook his head. "Do you have your detail, Sir?"

"Yes."

"We need to go to the emergency room, Commissioner. Danny's dehydrated. They're going to have to assess him for suicidality, but I'm confident that they'll release him as long as he'll have 24/7 care for the next couple days."

Frank held out his hand. "You just saved my boy's life, Doc. Call me Frank."


	26. Chapter 26

**TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal ideation, discussion of suicide attempt.**

**A/N: If you're drowning, please reach out! 1-800-273-8255.**

**Disclaimer: All my knowledge of emergency room procedures in this story comes from Google**.

* * *

Someone was rubbing his hand. There were words but he couldn't make them out.

His brain felt numb.

What had happened?

He had drowned.

He tried to swallow but his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

He opened his eyes.

He was in a dimly-lit place.

It smelled clean. Sterile. Hospital-like. But also that perfume that Linda…

Linda! O God, where was she? Had she left him, given up on him? Had they committed him to the psych ward? Was he dead?

He couldn't move his left hand.

"Linda!" His voice didn't sound like his.

"Right here, Danny." Something rubbed his left shoulder.

"Where…what?"

"What do you remember, Danny?" a gentle, yet firm voice asked. It sounded like…

"Doc?" he croaked.

"I haven't left you, Danny. I promised I wouldn't."

"Water," he whispered.

Someone lifted him to a sitting position, held a straw to his lips. He swallowed, once, twice, three… Then the straw was gone and his stomach was flip-flopping. "More."

"You need to take it slow, Danny. You haven't eaten in close to twenty-four hours. You've had two bags of IV fluids, so you're well-hydrated."

Then why didn't he need to….?

O crap. They'd put a catheter in.

"Where…?"

"Open your eyes and tell me where you are." Doc again.

He opened his eyes. Small room. Medical equipment. "Hospital?"

"Good work, Detective. You're in a private ER room."

He didn't know the ER had private rooms.

But of course they had to.

Deluxe rooms for depressed patients who'd tried to off themselves.

He tried to move his left hand but it wouldn't move. Had they tied him down?

"Take it easy, Danny, you have an IV in that hand. They wouldn't listen when I told them you were left-handed."

He blinked. Linda sat by his left side. She'd been crying.

Doc was on the other side.

He looked around the room, but he moved his head too fast, and a wave of dizziness crashed over him. Then nausea.

Linda shoved a basin under his chin, and he retched.

He threw up every ounce of water.

His hand was throbbing. That was weird. He frowned when he realized it was bandaged.

"You scraped your hands up pretty good on the wall."

He tried to take a breath, but the pain was filling his lungs like water. "I can't…it hurts…I can't breathe!"

Doc was holding his shoulders. "Yes, you can, Danny. It feels like you can't breathe, but you can. You're having a panic attack. Match my breathing. Nice and slow."

He took a gasping breath. "Doc…what…?"

When the wave passed, he leaned back. Doc let go, and he shuddered. "Don't…go…"

"I'm here, Danny. I'm just moving my chair. Can you tell me what you remember?"

"I left your office, and I…I couldn't breathe. So I bolted. I needed air. I was…trying to…outrun the pain. And I got to the roof and I could finally breathe."

"Do you remember me coming up on the roof?"

He nodded. "You…stayed. You didn't leave me. You asked lots of questions."

"What happened next?"

"You…got me to come downstairs. Then Linda…Linda!" He looked around wildly.

She was still there, and she rubbed his arm. "I'm here, Danny. I haven't left."

"Linda hugged me, and…I fell, and…you got me in Dad's car… Why was Dad there?"

"I asked Linda to call him. What do you remember next?"

"You all brought me to the hospital." He shuddered. "They kept asking me questions. Questions, an IV, they wanted me to pee but I couldn't, more questions, paperwork."

He frowned. "You got angry, Doc."

"I did. But not at you. Do you remember why?"

"Linda…they wanted Linda to leave." He couldn't breathe.

Her hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, Danny. I'm right here."

Doc said calmly, "Some new intern thought 1:1 patient contact meant you could only have one person in the room. The third time he tried to get her to leave, I chewed him out. You started to hyperventilate and your blood pressure went through the roof, so they gave you Ativan. It's a sedative, good for anxiety—which you've been showing a lot of in these past few hours. Feeling like you can't breathe."

Anxiety. So now he had anxiety. In addition to suicidal tendencies and depression and PTSD. Great. Just f-g great.

"How are you feeling now?"

"I'm scared." He blinked. Where had that come from? Must be the drugs; he felt foggy.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Danny. Can you tell me what you're scared of?" Doc's voice was gentle, like he was talking to a scared child.

"I don't…I can't…the pain…"

Doc's hand was warm on his shoulder again. "Yes, you can, Danny. You just did. You're scared of the pain, right?"

He nodded. "I can't take it anymore…I don't want to die, but I can't take the pain…"

His lungs were bursting and there were black spots dancing before his eyes.

He held his breath.

A monitor beeped, and Linda stood up, did something to it. Sometimes it was good being married to an ER nurse.

"Breathe, Danny!" Doc said, and shook him gently.

He let out a shaky breath. "What time is it?"

"It's a little after 5 a.m."

"How long…?"

"We've been here since about 10:30 last night. You've been asleep…"

"When can I go home?" he interrupted.

"The doctors are going to want to talk to you again, go over some plans. Then we'll figure out the next steps." He felt the panic rising again. "All of us, together, Danny. You, Linda, your dad, me, Erin and Jamie if you want."

"Detective Reagan, you're awake!" an overly cheerful voice said, and a doctor walked into the room.

"Danny. You can call me 'Danny,'" he muttered. It's not like he was a detective anymore.

* * *

It was another three hours before they gave him his discharge papers. Phone numbers to call, warning signs to look out for.

He'd agreed with the plan to stay at his dad's house (again) for several days or longer. Linda had called in to work; and Jamie was at his dad's. He knew they were suicide-proofing the house—"making sure it's safe for you," his dad had said.

He was on sick leave for at least two weeks; then he still had to finish his four weeks on modified—assuming he didn't get a "Please Don't Show Your Depressed Face In My Precinct Again" letter from Gormley—or worse, his father.

He had an appointment with Doc scheduled for the following day.

Linda was in charge of his medications—keeping them in a locked pillbox where he couldn't get them, in case he decided to do something stupid again. From taking no pills to an anti-depressant two weeks ago, now he had the nausea med, plus something "as needed" for anxiety. Which, considering that he'd had two panic attacks since waking up, he probably needed. But it was still a bunch of f-g crap.

The nurse came in with the wheelchair, and he looked up at Doc. He wasn't sure he was ready for this—ready to go back out into the world.

"I'll be right behind you, Danny. I'm not leaving."

* * *

He shivered, sitting on the couch at his dad's house.

He was cold, so f-g cold, colder than he'd ever been in Fallujah.

He wanted to sleep, but he also needed to wash the hospital smell off him. "Can…can I take a shower?"

"You should eat," Linda began, but Doc shook his head and she fell quiet.

"You can, but someone needs to be in the room with you. You understand why that is?" He nodded, and Doc went on, "Who do you want that to be?"

"L…Linda?"

"Of course. Let's go get you some clothes."

Someone—he assumed Jamie—had gone over to their house, packed several bags of clothing, and brought them back to his dad's.

He found his warmest USMC sweats, dug through the duffel bag until he found socks. Why was he so damned cold?

There was something in one of the socks, and he frowned.

He pulled it out.

It felt like…no, it couldn't be.

He unfolded the piece of paper in which the object was wrapped. It _was_ his badge, with a note taped to it.

The note had a rough sketch of the badge, signed "Frank Reagan, PC," and his dad's handwriting.

_Danny,_

_I'm breaking protocol giving this back to you, but I know you'll give it back to me when you come downstairs. This is my promise to you that you will get this back._

_I love you, son._

_~Dad._

How could his dad have such faith in him after…?

Tears pricked his eyes, and he rocked back on his heels. A cry broke from him, and then Linda's arms were around him.

"Danny, what's wrong? It's okay, babe, it's okay. Just let it out."

He shook his head.

It wasn't okay, nothing was okay.

He couldn't let it out; he'd already cried more times in the last four-odd weeks than in the previous nine years combined.

He tried to breathe but his lungs were filled with water. He was going to suffocate.

He couldn't tell her how incredibly not-okay it was, because if he opened his mouth, he would scream. Except he couldn't scream. He'd just swallow more water and his lungs would burst.

He crumpled in a heap on the floor, his head in her lap.

"You're safe, Danny. Let it out."

He couldn't. Why didn't she get that?

His lungs were bursting, straining for air, but it wasn't safe to breathe.

"Breathe, Danny."

She rubbed at his back firmly.

And then the suffocating, choking pressure in his lungs broke, and pain—the pain he'd tried to run from last night, on the roof—the pain he'd been afraid of since he walked onto that Army base thirty days ago—hell, the pain he'd been afraid of since Iraq—hit him in the chest like a wave.

He gasped for air.

He clenched his teeth, his fists, every muscle in his body to try to keep back the sob, but it broke free anyway, and then another, and another—each sob threatening to tear his soul from his body.

He flinched when Linda tightened her grip on him. She was rocking him back-and-forth like she'd rocked the boys when they were tiny.

A howl of utter anguish split his eardrums. Had that been him?

It didn't matter, and he clung to Linda.


	27. Chapter 27

Alex was talking quietly with Frank, Henry, Erin, and Jamie when an ungodly cry came from upstairs.

Everyone flinched, and Frank bolted to his feet.

Alex rose. "I'll be right back." He took the stairs two at a time. He was pretty sure that had been Danny's voice; but if it hadn't…if he'd gotten away from Linda and she'd… He shuddered. "Sweet Jesus, keep him safe!"

Sobs were coming from an open door, and he sprinted down the hall.

Linda was sitting on the floor, cradling Danny in her arms. He was sobbing—painful, noisy, gasping-for-air sobs.

Alex caught Linda's eye. She nodded at him through her own tears, and he held up his hand to say "I'll be right back," then ran back downstairs.

Frank was pacing. Jamie looked as if he were about ready to put his fist through the wall; and Erin was staring out the window, her shoulders shaking. Henry had his arm around her.

"Danny's okay. He's okay. He's…crying his eyes out. This will be a good thing, but he'll probably have a killer headache afterwards. He's already dehydrated…" He looked over at the Commissioner. "Do you have any Gatorade, Frank?"

"I'm not…"

Henry patted Erin gently, then turned to him. "Yes, yes, we do. Come on, Doc, I'll get it for you. Danny likes the blue kind."

Alex got the old man talking about stories from his days as Commissioner, and 20 minutes had passed before he took a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. Henry opened the pantry and took out a package of saltines. "Actually, Doc, if you don't mind, I'll take the Gatorade to Danny, give Linda a break. She hasn't left his side for the past twelve hours."

"That's fine with me. I'll come up with you, though; I would like to check on him again."

Danny was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. Linda was next to him, holding his hand. "Danny," Henry said.

"Gramps. What…what are you doing here?"

"Where else would I be?" He gestured at the floor. "I'd join you, but then you'd have to call the EMTs to get me off the floor."

Alex smiled, and Linda gave a watery smile, but Danny didn't react.

Slowly, Danny stood up. He didn't resist as Henry wrapped him in a hug. After a minute, he sat down on the bed. "I brought you some of that Gatorade you like," Henry said, and sat down in the armchair.

Satisfied that Danny was in capable hands, Alex gestured to Linda, followed her to the top of the stairs.

He paused there. "What made him break down?"

"He was getting his clothes, and found…his dad gave him his badge back. Not permanently—not yet—protocol requires Frank to take it back until Danny's restored to full duty; but…it was Frank's promise to Danny that Danny will get back on the job. Even after…"

Her voice broke. She shuddered, then visibly pulled herself together. "Henry will take good care of Danny. None of us has had breakfast yet; let's go figure that out, Doc."

* * *

They were finishing up breakfast when Henry called down, "Linda!" He didn't sound worried or panicked, but she still bolted up the stairs.

He met her at the bedroom door. "I'm sorry I shouted. Danny's okay. He ate some Gatorade and crackers. He's ready for that shower."

She nodded, feeling her heart-rate return to normal. "Oookay. Thanks, Pop."

She pulled her phone out of her pocket. "If you're going to stay with him while he naps, call Erin's number—it's in here—the second he needs anything. I don't want you to have to yell again; it scared the crap out of me."

He nodded, squeezed her shoulder. "Sorry about that." He lowered his voice. "I'll be back by the time you two get out of the shower; I'm going to go get the paper and a bite to eat."

He left, and she walked over to Danny, who was standing at the threshold of the bathroom. "Penny for your thoughts," she whispered.

He flinched, and she put a hand on his arm. "Wishing I could shower by myself, but I can't. I'm still so…weak." He cursed.

"Well, you haven't eaten anything in over 24 hours, other than Gatorade and crackers; it's normal that you're weak. Do you want me to help you with the shower?" She didn't remind him that he wasn't going to be allowed to go in the bathroom alone.

He nodded. "Sorry."

She turned to face him. "No apologies, Danny."

He was trembling, and she had to help him undress. Then she stripped, and stepped into the shower with him. Somehow, the shower chair Henry had used after his hip operation had made it out of the closet and into the shower, and Danny sat on it without complaint.

When they were both clean, she helped him out of the tub, wrapped each of them in a towel.

"I can't bend over…dizzy again. Can you help me dry my feet?"

"Of course, babe." She knelt in front of him, dried his calloused feet. "Danny?"

"Yeah?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes; he was staring off at the wall, and she waggled his ankle. "Hey, look at me, Danny."

Finally, he turned to her, and the pain in his eyes broke her heart. "I love you, Danny."

"But I'm…"

She stood, kissed him to keep the next words from coming out of his mouth. "You're the love of my life, Danny. _I love you;_ I just hate that you're in so much pain."

He looked away. "Love you more."

She kissed him gently. "Love you most, Danny. Always."

He nodded dully, and pulled his tee-shirt over his head.

* * *

When they walked back into the bedroom, Henry was in the armchair, reading the paper. "I thought I'd sit with you while you got some sleep, Danny."

He nodded.

Linda tucked him in, kissed his forehead. "I'll be downstairs, Danny, okay?"

He nodded, closed his eyes, and she slipped out of the room. Maybe now he'd get some drug-free sleep.

* * *

"Are we keeping you? Do you need to go back to your practice?" Frank asked after Linda had bolted up the stairs.

Alex poured himself a second cup of coffee. "Thank you for asking. No; I only had follow-ups today. My colleague will take care of any emergencies that arise. Plus, I promised Danny I'd stay with him until he asked me to leave."

Frank nodded; they finished breakfast; and Alex quickly stepped in to help Jamie with the dishes.

They were all back in the living room when Linda came downstairs. She joined Jamie on the couch. Erin had gone back to the window, and Frank had settled in what seemed to be his armchair.

"How's he doing?" Jamie asked.

Linda shrugged. "He ate, took a shower, got dressed, and is sleeping now. Pops is with him."

"Good, that's good."

Alex had settled in the other armchair—a good vantage point to be able to see everyone's faces. There hadn't been much talking at the hospital—everyone was too tense—but now he'd offered to talk with them, make sure everyone was on the same page. He cleared his throat. "Ms. Reagan, I'm ready to talk to you all, if you'd join us."

She turned, slowly. "You talked to my brother for over an hour last night. How the hell did you let him walk out of your office and onto that roof?"

"Erin…" Jamie said.

"No, it's a fair question, Officer Reagan." He locked eyes with Erin. "Ms. Reagan; I've been asking myself the same question for the past"—he glanced at his watch—"twelve or so hours."

He sighed. "Come sit down, please." She didn't move, and he said, "I'd like to be able to look at everyone while we talk."

With a sigh of her own, she walked over to the couch, sat down next to Linda.

He paused, weighing the boundaries between confidentiality, and easing the justifiable fears and angers of his patient's family.

"Danny was upset when he came in last night. He almost walked out five minutes in—but he stopped when I told him I would admit him for a 72-hour psych hold if he left at that moment. He calmed down, really opened up. He called Linda to come pick him up, because he didn't think he could drive home. That's one of the reasons I let him leave with her—he was stable enough to reach out for help. When he left my office…close to two hours after the session began…he was walking next to his wife, holding her hand, going home for a quiet, no-kids weekend."

A dry sob broke from Linda, and he turned to her. "This is not your fault, Linda."

Alex crossed his arms over his chest, looked at his patient's family. "When Danny walked out of my office, he was shaky; but I do not think he was suicidal at that moment. It's possible he had a flashback and that's what made him panic, but I'll have to talk to him to find out—if he remembers."

"Why isn't he in the hospital?" Erin pressed. "Isn't that protocol for suicidal patients?"

"For some suicidal patients, yes. However, Danny does not meet the criteria that make hospitalization mandatory. He's not psychotic. His climb to the roof was not pre-meditated—it was a moment of panic—and he does not have a suicide plan. On the positive side, he was frightened on the roof, and he came down when I asked him to—I had to encourage him, but he came surprisingly easily; he's asking for help; and he agreed to outpatient therapy—including group therapy." _That'll be an adventure_ , he thought, remembering Danny's attitude in his anger management group.

"The strongest reason for releasing him from the hospital was that he was not going home alone; he was going home to a strong family support system. He does not need to be in a sterile hospital where they don't know him; he needs to be surrounded by his family—by each and every one of you."

He paused, looked around the room at Frank…Jamie…Linda…Erin.

"One of the things that has been triggering him is the fear of losing all of you; the fear that his PTSD would spiral out of control—as it now has—and that you would leave him. The fact that all of you came to the hospital last night at 11 pm; each of you obviously called into work today…I can tell you all are close. Danny needs you to close ranks and be there for him."

He took a sip of his coffee. "For all of those reasons, when the ER doctor asked my professional opinion, I told him Danny was stable enough to go home, and that his family—all of you—would provide 24/7 supervision for as long as he needed it. I don't expect this crisis to last more than a few days, and I will be in contact with him daily."

Erin nodded, her face softening for the first time. "Thank you, Dr. Dawson." She turned to Linda. "Come on upstairs; you can take a nap in my old room."

Danny's wife nodded, and followed her sister-in-law up the stairs.


	28. Chapter 28

He was lying on something soft.

He didn't feel as drugged as he had earlier.

Still numb, though.

He'd felt the numbness before…numb was good, it was safe, because he didn't care whether he lived or died.

The numbness had been drowned out by pain.

The pain hadn't let him breathe, and he'd bolted.

He sat up. He was in his old room at his dad's house.

Doc was sitting in a chair, reading. Stupid suicide watch.

"Doc?"

Doc put his book down, turned to look at him. "Hey, Danny. How're you feeling?"

He shrugged.

"Were you able to get some rest?" He nodded. "Nightmares?"

"Not really."

"How's the nausea?"

"Better." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for the second bottle of Gatorade Gramps had left, and drank some.

"Are you hungry?"

He shook his head. "What time is it?"

"A little after two; you slept for two hours." Doc gestured at the dresser. "Your sister left a thermos of soup here for you a few minutes ago."

He'd get a lecture if he didn't eat, so he stood up, swayed, steadied himself on the bed, and walked over to the dresser. The thermos was still warm.

He sat back down on the bed, opened the thermos. "What the hell is this?"

"Clam chowder, pureed so it'll be easier on your stomach. And, yes, it's the New England version, because Erin didn't think your stomach would handle the tomatoes."

He glared at Doc, but sat down, took a cautious sip. It wasn't half-bad.

Doc talked quietly…about the weather, the basketball game two nights ago…while he drank the soup, and he finished half of it.

"Do you feel up to talking a bit?"

He put the lid back on the thermos, set it down on the table. "You're not going to listen if I say 'no.'"

"Actually, Danny, I will listen. But I would like to know why you don't want to talk right now."

He shrugged.

"May I make a guess?"

"Sure," he whispered.

"I'm going to guess you're feeling very out-of-control, maybe a little scared?"

Danny nodded. "Yeah. How…how long is this…suicide watch gonna last?"

"Do you think it's safe to leave you alone with your thoughts right now?"

"No."

Doc was looking at him as if he wanted more words, and he cursed. "I…I'm still…I don't know if I'm pissed at you for talking me off the roof, or…or not."

"I can work with that, Danny. To answer your question, I'd say it'll be a few days before either your family or I are willing to let you out of our sight."

He flinched. Doc wasn't pulling his punches. "I…I'm tired of being in pain."

"I know."

"No, dammit, you don't know! Stop saying that! You don't know what it's like!" Tears pricked his eyes, and he cursed. He couldn't even get properly mad before the damned waterworks started.

"I'm sorry, Danny. What I meant was: I know you're tired of being in pain. You're right; I don't know, firsthand, what you're going through. So tell me what it's like."

"Why the hell did you come after me? Why didn't you just let me…?" His voice broke, and he looked away.

Doc didn't say anything, and Danny chanced a glance to see if the younger man looked angry. Maybe he regretted saving him, regretted all the time he was spending here with Danny, with his family.

But there was no regret, no anger, in Doc's eyes. He said, firmly, "I came after you because you do not deserve to die. You deserve healing."

He looked away. Doc could keep saying that, but it wasn't going to make him believe it.

"The second reason I came after you is…because I care about you. I know that you can get through this."

He shook his head.

Doc leaned forward. "Danny, can you tell me what happened last night? What you were thinking between the time you walked out of my office with Linda, and the time I came up onto the roof?"

He shuddered. He wasn't sure if he _could_ talk about it…

"Take your time, Danny."

He cursed under his breath. If he hadn't been so dizzy, he would have gotten up and paced till the jumbled-up thoughts straightened out. Was it the panic making him dizzy, or the drugs they'd pumped him with?

He let out a shuddery breath. "I…had a flashback. It wasn't…any different from…the ones I've been having since the case. Except this time…it hurt, and the pain was…ripping my heart out of my chest. I couldn't breathe. I had to get away from the pain, so I…bolted. And then I was on the roof and…I…I still had to get away from…the memories and everybody's questions, and…I climbed up on the wall. I could breathe, then…"

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I…wanted…I just wanted the pain to stop, and it…wasn't stopping. I'm not sure how I didn't slip, 'cause I was already dizzy, and I'm scared of heights."

He bit his lip. "I knew that…what I was about to do…was wrong. But I just wanted the pain to stop! I can't live like this, Doc! I was…I was praying the Act of Contrition when you walked up on the roof, and I…I was about to…let go."

"Why didn't you?"

He opened his eyes. Doc had sat down next to him—somehow without him noticing. He looked straight at the younger man. "You walked onto the roof. I…didn't know then, but now…I think…I told you to leave me alone because…I didn't want you have to see… I mean, I've been a total wreck since John Russell fell, and…I don't…you shouldn't…have to live with that."

He flinched at the hand on his arm. "Thank you for that, Danny. I'm going to have to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Will you do that for me?"

He nodded.

"Do you still want to kill yourself?"

The pressure in his chest was strangling him again. He couldn't…

"I don't want to hurt anymore," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"I know. But there is a difference between not wanting to be in pain, and wanting to kill yourself. I will help you learn how to deal with the pain in healthy, non-self-destructive ways; but I need your help. So I'm going to ask you again: Do you still want to kill yourself?"

He wanted to yell at Doc, to curse him for his patience, for not leaving him, for fighting to keep his head above the water. But all of that required energy, and his was rapidly disappearing somewhere under the bed on which he was sitting. "I…I don't know."

"Not good enough, Danny. Yes or no?"

He let out a shaky breath, counted to 100 in his head. If Doc were telling him the truth…Doc hadn't lied to him, not once…

He couldn't swallow. The lump in his throat was growing, choking him. He took a tiny sip of Gatorade. Somehow, it went down around the lump in his throat.

"No," he whispered, and hoped it was the truth.

"Thank you for telling me."

He nodded. All this emotional crap was wearing him out. "Where is everybody?"

"Linda went to take a nap in Erin's room, but she's probably awake now. Your father had to go to his office, so he's dropping Jamie and Erin off at my office to pick up your ineand m; and then your father's going to pick the boys up from school before he comes home. I'm not sure where your grandfather is."

"Your car? Are you leaving?"

"I promised you I would stay until you ask me to leave. I'm not going back on that promise, though I had planned to go home for the night. You need to lean on your family, Danny. I'll be back at 10 a.m. for your session tomorrow."

He frowned. "You're…coming here?"

"I don't think it would be good for your emotional state to be anywhere near my office for a couple weeks, Danny."

"So I'm on house arrest?"

"Only for your own safety, for a few days. It'll be okay, Danny. I promise you: you will get through this, you will get back to your precinct; and in good time, you will get back to full duty."

Full duty. His badge. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled it out. "My dad gave this back to me, temporarily; I found it in one of my socks."

He held it out.

Doc looked at it, smiled slightly. "Your dad has faith that you can fight this; you need to have a little faith in yourself, Danny."


	29. Chapter 29

With Danny safely occupied with Doc, his dad in the kitchen, and Linda napping, Frank Reagan called his detail and asked to be taken to the 54th precinct.

He dropped Jamie and Erin off at Dawson's office.

He hurried his way through the bustle of saluting officers. "Detective Baez, I'd like to see you for a minute." He gestured to Sergeant Gormley's office, and followed her.

In Gormley's office, he locked the door and closed the blinds. "Commissioner?" Gormley asked nervously.

"As you were. I'm sure both of you noticed that Detective Reagan did not come in to work today."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is Danny okay?" Baez asked.

"No. Anyone asks you where he is: he has a nasty virus…I'm sure both of you have noticed the weight falling off him, and the not-eating, the vomiting at work?"

They nodded. Frank knew it was the truth.

"His doctor doesn't want him back at work…even modified duty…until he's put some weight back on; that'll take at least two weeks." That at least was true.

"And the truth, Sir?" Baez asked.

"The truth is for your ears only. If I hear that there are rumors circulating, or that anyone else knows, I will have your badges. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

He sighed. "You both know Danny's been…struggling since the Russell case; that's why he's been on modified assignment for the past two weeks. Two weeks ago, he was diagnosed with clinical depression. Unfortunately, what none of us could see, because he hid it so well under his anger, is that he's been depressed for a much longer time—possibly since his time in Iraq."

Another sigh. "Last night, Detective…Danny…my boy…"

His voice broke—the last time that had happened in public was after Joe had been killed—and he walked to the window. His back safely to Gormley and Baez, he said, quietly, "My boy tried to kill himself last night."

A muttered curse from Gormley, a gasp from Baez. "How?" Baez whispered.

"He went up on the roof of his therapist's office. Dr. Dawson was able to talk him down safely."

He turned, looked them in the eyes. "Danny, Linda, and the boys are staying at my house for the time being; Danny can't be alone right now. When he's up to seeing anyone, I'll let you know. In the meantime, keep all of us in your prayers. And remember: this gets out to anyone, I will personally take your badges and guns. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Yes, Commissioner."

They saluted him, and he left the 54th precinct. He had grandsons to pick up from school.

* * *

Linda slipped in the room as Doc slipped out. "Hey, babe."

"Hey." He couldn't meet her eyes, not after…not after last night, and his breakdown earlier.

She sat down next to him. "Did you get any sleep? Did you eat the soup Erin brought up?"

He nodded.

"Then how come you look worse than you did earlier?"

He shrugged. "Rough session with Doc."

"I'm listening," she said, and rubbed at his back.

He shook his head. "Doc asked me…if I still wanted to kill myself. And I told him no. Because right now, here, at Dad's…I don't. But I can't…there's still this nagging thought in the back of my head that the pain would stop if I…just ended it all, that you would be better off without me."

"No. Never, Danny."

"I'm so scared that…the…urge…to make it all stop…will come back."

"And that's why you're here, surrounded by your family. You come to one of us, you call Doc…when you start thinking that…okay? You're not alone, Danny." She kissed him gently. "Tell me about… the pain, Danny; let me bear it with you."

He pulled away, leaned his chin in his hands, and tried not to tense up when she wrapped her arm around his back. "I don't deserve to be alive. I should have died over there in Iraq, not them."

"Look at me, Danny."

He turned, slowly.

"That's the depression talking, the PTSD. It's not the truth, babe. I promise you."

He shrugged. Doc and Linda saying the same words over and over again wasn't gonna make him believe it.

"Doc said Dad went to get the boys?"

"Yes. They'll be home in an hour or so."

"What do they know?"

She rubbed his back. "Jamie took them to school this morning; they think your dad had an emergency at work and it kept him out all night. They were already at school by the time we got back here this morning, and they don't know we're here. They still think we're…having a quiet weekend."

A quiet weekend. Dammit. It was Valentine's Day. He'd gone and ruined Valentine's Day for his wife.

"I ruined Valentine's Day. I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Look at me, Danny." He turned to face her, and the love in her eyes took his breath away. "You did not 'ruin' Valentine's Day. You're still here, with me…that's all that matters, Danny."

She kissed him, and he clung to her and tried to block out everything else.

* * *

They had just come downstairs and were sitting hand-in-hand on the couch, talking quietly with Doc, when the front door opened.

"We're home!" his dad called, and the boys sprinted into the room.

"Dad, Mom, what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?"

"Have a seat, boys. We need to talk to you," Linda said.

They settled down, Jack squeezing between Danny and Linda, and Sean on the other side of Linda.

"You remember Dr. Dawson?" Linda asked.

"Yeah," Sean piped up. "You're the guy who makes Dad talk about stuff that upsets him."

"Sean," Linda warned.

Doc just smiled. "Guilty as charged, Sean. But sometimes, if you talk about things instead of keeping them inside, it makes them hurt less."

Sean frowned, but Jack nodded knowingly.

"Boys," Linda began, "We're going to be staying here for the next couple of weeks. Your dad…" Her voice broke.

Danny looked helplessly at Doc, who looked straight back at him. _You can do this_ , his eyes said.

He sighed. At least, with the boys next to them on the couch, he didn't have to look them in the eyes, see the hurt and disappointment.

"You know how Mom told you I'm taking medication to help my brain so I won't be so angry and sad?"

"Yeah, you said it was called depression," Sean sulked.

"That's right." He let out a shaky breath. Doc had given them advice on how to tell the boys, but he'd hoped Linda would do the heavy lifting.

"Sometimes…depression can make a person so sad that they think…that they shouldn't be alive. They might be so sad they…try to hurt themselves. I had to go to the hospital last night, boys, because…I almost did something… that would've meant not coming home to you and your mom ever again."

Jack looked up at him. "Did you…were you going to kill yourself? After Grandpa already took your gun away?"

He let out a shaky breath. He couldn't lie to his boy. "Yes, Jack. I was hurting last night, and I was scared; and…I just wanted to stop hurting. Doc…talked me out of it."

Jack burst into tears and buried his face in Danny's chest.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so, so sorry," he murmured.

Doc slipped out of the room, and Danny pulled his family into his arms. Both his boys were sobbing, and it was all his fault, and maybe they needed him as much as he needed them, and maybe Linda had been right.

When the boys' tears had slowed, Linda said, "It's okay if you don't want to talk about this right now, but if you need to talk, you can come to me or your dad, or Grandpa, or Pops, or call Uncle Jamie or Aunt Erin. Okay?"

Jack nodded, wiped at his nose.

"Dad's still going to be talking to Dr. Dawson, and I am, too…to talk about how scared I am for Dad. And if you boys need to, we can go see Dr. Bell"—the child psychologist they'd gone to…had it only been two weeks ago?

"Are you gonna be okay, Dad?" Sean asked, and the innocence of the question broke his heart.

"I…I'm trying, kiddo. I'm…still hurting and I'm honestly kinda scared; but…I'm trying."

"Is that why we're staying with Grandpa, because you're scared and you need your dad around?"

"Something like that, kiddo."

He swallowed hard. Doc had said to reassure them…

"Boys, I want both of you to know that this is not your fault." He made eye contact with Jack. "It's not anyone's fault, okay?"

Except…it was his fault, but he couldn't tell the boys that.

"Can I go play now?"

"Not until your homework's done, Sean," Danny said, and kissed the top of his son's head.

As the boys walked off, he was surprised to see Jack put his arm around Sean's shoulders, and even more surprised when the younger boy didn't shrug it off.

"That couldn't have gone much worse," he muttered.

"Actually, I think it went well," Doc said, walking back in. "You told them the truth, you reassured them you're getting help, you let them know they could come talk to you…good job, Danny."


	30. Chapter 30

Linda had gone upstairs to check on the boys, and he found himself unsure what to say to his therapist.

"Doc, I know you probably need to get going; but…what the hell am I supposed to do, stuck here at my dad's for the next two weeks? I don't know why I can't just be on modified; it's not like I'm sick!"

"Danny, how much do you normally weigh?"

He frowned. How was that relevant? "160, give or take."

"At the ER last night, you were under 140. Being 20 pounds underweight…that's not healthy, Danny." Doc leaned forward. "As for what you're going to do…I know both your dad and Linda will be taking some days off. Talk to them, let them help you."

He shook his head. "They shouldn't…" He swallowed hard, looked away. "They shouldn't have to worry about me."

"Danny, look at me, please." He turned, flinched at the ferocity of the younger man's gaze. " _You are worth worrying about_ , Danny."

 _No I'm not!_ he thought, but knew better than to say it out loud.

"What was that, Danny?"

He frowned, looked up at Doc.

"You just self-censored; I could tell from your body language. What were you thinking, Danny?"

He stared at his sock feet. "I'm not worth worrying about," he whispered.

"Why?"

He blinked. "What…?"

"You heard me, Danny."

He sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Come on, Doc, can't we talk about this tomorrow?"

"No. I'm not going to let you skirt around this issue anymore. Tell me why you think you don't deserve to have others worry about you. Then I'll call it a day."

He glared at Doc.

"Do you remember my bullet analogy?" He shrugged, and Doc went on, "Lodged somewhere under a mass of scar and infected tissue, is the answer to my question. And you need to dig through that mess, pull out the bullet. Talk through it. Tell me why you're so terrified to face it."

He flinched. He wasn't terrified, dammit! "I'm a cop; we protect and serve; we take care of others, not the other way around."

"Being a cop is a _job_ , Danny; it's not who you are as a person. Human beings live in community, not in isolation. If you're 'too tough' to let others worry about you, you end up alone, bitter, turned in on yourself, burying your pain until it reaches a boiling point and explodes in your face. There's nothing wrong with letting people worry about you, Danny."

He cursed under his breath, stood up, took a shaky turn around his dad's living room. Doc was like a dog with a bone.

"Danny, come sit down, please." He sighed, stalked over to the couch. "Your family loves you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Because it's what family does."

"Do you love them?"

He shot Doc a look. "Yeah."

"Do you worry about them?"

He nodded.

"So why do you think they shouldn't worry about you?"

"Dammitall! I don't know, Doc!"

"Yes, you do, Danny. I promise, I'll leave you to the unwanted worries of your family as soon as you give me an answer. Let me re-phrase the question for you: You don't want them to worry about you because you think you don't deserve their worry, their concern. Why is that?"

"I've lost too many damn people…family, friends, fellow Marines, fellow cops. The less you worry, the less you hurt."

"You think the less your family worries about you, the less they'll hurt if you get killed on the job?" He shrugged, and Doc shook his head. "What about your brother Joe?"

The wave crashed over him again and he couldn't breathe. He'd only told Doc about Joe…the one time. He had to swallow several times before he could speak. "What…what about Joe?"

"He was your brother. You loved him, you cared about him. I can tell his death still upsets you. Would you prefer if you hadn't loved him so much…because that would make the pain less?"

He whirled, kicked the couch because he'd be in a heap of trouble if he put a hole in his father's living room. "I didn't say that, Doc! Stop twisting my words, dammit!"

"I'm following your logic, Danny. You just said: you're not worth worrying about—because the less they worry, the less they'll hurt if something happens to you. Did I hear you correctly?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. You're so close, Danny…where did you get the idea that others shouldn't worry about you?"

He glared at Doc, stalked over to the couch and slumped onto it. He didn't think he'd always felt this way, but the past four weeks…since John Russell's suicide… "Is it…because I'm depressed? Because the depression's lying to me?"

"Good job, Danny. That's exactly what it is." Doc stood, pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him.

He unfolded it. At the top it read: " **Lies Depression Tells Me**."

The first one was " _I don't deserve other people worrying about me_."

There were a few more, and then there were numbered lines for him to add more. "Homework, Doc, really?"

"Not for now; we'll work on it next week probably. If you're up to it, though…do you remember the homework I gave you last night?"

Those stupid lists. "Yeah."

"Try to work on getting two things on each list, by tomorrow. Can you do that?"

He shrugged. Wasn't like he had anything else to do.

Doc held out his hand. "I'll see you at 10 a.m., Danny. Get some sleep tonight?"

"Thanks."

* * *

He frowned when he wandered into the dining room. The whole family was there—except for Nicki, Jack, and Sean. "Where are the kids?"

"In the kitchen," his grandfather said. "This is an adults-only dinner."

He sighed. "Look, guys, you…you don't…"

"Danny…we're here because we want to be here—not because we have to. We're your family, and we love you," Erin said earnestly.

He stared at his plate. He hadn't seen that look of raw pain in her eyes in…years. Not since Joe's death.

"Linda, I'd like you to say grace," his dad said.

He reached for her hand, frowned when he heard himself say, "Actually, Dad, I…I'd like to say it." He cleared his throat, crossed himself. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…" The stupid lump in his throat was back, and he swallowed hard as Linda joined in with him, "Which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

His grandfather and sister had cooked his favorite Friday meal…cod, potatoes, and green beans…and he took generous portions, hoped the anti-nausea med would work and he could clear his plate.

Jamie and Erin were trying to hard to keep the conversation light, but that wasn't distracting him from the fact that everyone kept glancing at him.

Finally, the fifth time Jamie shot him that damned sideways glance, he'd had enough.

"Will you all stop looking at me as if you think I'm gonna stab myself with this knife?" he exploded, then cursed when Erin burst into tears.

She pushed her chair back and fled, and his grandfather glared at him. "Daniel. That was uncalled-for. Go talk to your sister."

He glared back, but stood up, went into the kitchen. There was no sign of Erin, but Nikki pointed to the stairs, and he trudged up them.

He found her in her old room, head buried in an old coat in the closet.

"Erin, look…I…I'm sorry." He touched her shoulder, but she flinched. "I didn't mean it. I just…"

"Didn't mean it? Like you 'didn't mean' to go up on the roof of your therapist's office and nearly jump off?" She whirled, slugged him in the chest, and he grabbed her hands to still them. He couldn't afford another bout of bruised ribs—not when the occasional twinge still took his breath away.

She buried her face in his chest. "I can't lose you too, Danny," she sputtered.

He brought his arms around her in a hug. "I…I'm sorry, Erin," he whispered.

When she had cried herself out, she looked up at him. "What happened, Danny? Doc said you panicked, but…"

He shook his head. "Later. Or else they'll send a posse to get us."

He followed her downstairs, sat down with an apologetic shrug to the rest of his family.

He poked at his food until everyone else was finally finished.

"You two, dishes," his grandfather said, and he trudged into the kitchen behind his kid sister.

"I'll wash, you dry?" she offered.

He shrugged, grabbed the towel.

After the third knife slipped out of his hands and clattered on the floor, he picked it up, threw it in the sink.

Then he sighed, threw the towel down, and leaned on the counter. This would be a lot easier if his grandfather and father weren't sitting at the table behind them. "Dad, Pops, can you give us a minute?"

"Come sit down, Danny," his grandfather said.

He shook his head. He didn't want to be looking anyone in the eyes while he had this conversation.

"This is between me and Erin, Pops. All due respect, we don't need you and Dad refereeing us."

"Danny, I've barely had a chance to look you in the eyes and talk to you since last night. Come sit down, and talk with us. Please."

He couldn't argue when his dad used that tone, so he turned, stalked over to the table, and sat down.

At some point, four beer bottles had materialized on the table.

His dad nudged one over to him, and he took a cautious sip. He knew about the "no alcohol on the happy pills" thing, didn't he?

It wasn't bad, but it definitely wasn't beer. "What the hell's this?"

"Ginger beer. Completely alcohol-free."

He sighed, took another swig.

He'd been having one conversation with Erin; now his grandfather and father wanted in on it? What the hell could he say to them?

"Danny, it was bad enough you were even considering it two weeks ago, and then you were trapped in the middle of a flashback. Last night…"—Erin's voice broke—"last night, you were in your right mind, and you…"

"I _wasn't_ in my right mind, Erin! I'd just had a flashback. I couldn't handle the…the pain; I couldn't _breathe_. So I bolted."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry," she said. "What…what can I do, how can I help?"

He sighed. "I don't know. Doc probably told you all the things to do and not to do, starting with not leaving me alone for even one second."

"We're not trying to smother you, Danny; we're trying to keep you safe from yourself," his dad said.

He shook his head, pulled his badge out of his pocket, and slid it across the table to his dad, who pocketed it.

"You honestly think I'm going to get back to full duty?"

"In time, yes."

"Dad…I'm on an anti-depressant and now a med for freaking anxiety; I nearly jumped off a roof last night because I couldn't handle the pain; I'm having nightmares and flashbacks—I can't do the job like that!"

"How many weeks of modified do you have left?"

"Four."

"How many weeks of sick leave before you return to modified duty?"

"At least two." Why was his dad asking? He knew all this…unless it was another trick like Doc used, asking twenty questions to get him to realize something.

"That gives you six weeks—for the anti-depressant to work, for you to talk with Dr. Dawson about ways to lessen the flashbacks and the nightmares; for you to do everything you need to do in order to be ready to be back on the job. You will get through this, Danny."

"You don't know that, dad! Maybe I'm not gonna pass the psych eval, maybe I'm not cut out to be a cop anymore!"

"Danny…don't worry about that now."

"How the hell am I not supposed to worry about it? What am I gonna do if I don't get back on the job?"

"Danny, I spent 12 years taught by Jesuits. Somebody—I think it was Ignatius of Loyola—said something to the effect of: don't make a decision in the midst of 'desolation'—the 16th-century term for what today we call 'depression.' In other words: this is not the time to make a decision about your future. Wait out the six weeks, let therapy and medication start to get your head on straight again."

"You're telling me to be a good little patient and take my pills and go to therapy? Come on, Dad! All three of us"—he gestured to his father and grandfather—"saw the same crap in the military. I know your attitude toward therapy and medication! How the hell didn't you two go off the deep end, end up in therapy, drunk, or worse?"

"And I told you a few weeks ago, I was wrong to have that attitude," his father said mildly.

"There but for the grace of God," said his grandfather. He rose. "It's late, Danny. Go find your wife; you should be spending Valentine's Day with her, not with me and your father."

They disappeared into the living room, and he rose to find Linda.


	31. Chapter 31

At 9:50 a.m. Saturday, Alex Dawson rang the doorbell of the Reagan house.

Linda opened the door. "Doc, I'm glad to see you," she said quietly. "Danny had a rough night. He's been awake for hours, but he's not talking to any of us. He didn't eat anything, either. He's totally shut down." She jerked her head toward the kitchen table, where Alex could see Danny slumped. "The boys are out with Henry and Frank; I'll be upstairs if you need me."

Alex followed her inside. She squeezed Danny's shoulder as she went by, whispered something in his ear, and went upstairs; and Alex closed the door behind him.

Danny looked up at him.

"Morning, Danny. How you holding up?"

He shrugged, not making eye contact.

"Did you sleep?"

Another shrug.

"Where'd your arm go?" Alex asked, trying to get the older man to open up.

He winced when Danny pulled his right hand from under the table and looked at it as if he'd never seen it before. It was wrapped in a neat gauze bandage—definitely not what they'd sent him home from the hospital with. "What happened?"

He shook his head.

"Danny, you can keep giving me the silent treatment, but you're stuck with me for the next hour. It'll go by quicker for both of us if I don't have to do all the talking." He sat down.

"I just wanted to stop hurting!" Danny said, and slammed his hand down on the table.

"Are you talking about the roof, or about whatever you did to your hand last night?" Danny shrugged, and Alex said, "Causing yourself physical pain will not take away the emotional pain, Danny."

* * *

Maybe if he told Doc about last night, Doc wouldn't press him about the roof, the flashback…

"I had a hell of a nightmare last night," he muttered.

"I'm listening."

Two words. The drugs from the hospital must still be in his system, because those two words…meant more than they should have. Doc cared. He didn't know why the hell Doc cared…he certainly didn't deserve Doc's concern…but he did. And maybe…maybe it was safe to let Doc hear his pain.

He let out a shaky breath. "I'm on the roof, and you try to talk me down, but I jump anyway. Somehow, I survive; broken bones and horrible physical pain. But the physical pain is nothing compared to…" He shook his head. He didn't know the words for what he was trying to say.

"The emotional pain…the pain inside?" Doc asked quietly.

He nodded.

"What did you do to your hand?"

"Slammed it into the wall when I woke up from the nightmare." He didn't tell Doc that he'd removed the hospital bandage first.

"So…you were still feeling the emotional pain when you woke up. Was it the same pain that made you bolt to the roof Thursday night?"

He shrugged.

"Tell me about the pain—was it your memories from Fallujah?"

He pushed his chair back, stood up so quickly the room spun.

Fallujah. Why the hell did it always come back to Fallujah? Why wouldn't everyone just let him forget? Hell, why couldn't _he_ forget? He'd done a pretty damned good job forgetting for 9 years—so why couldn't he just stuff it back down inside now? Why did it keep haunting him?

His stomach was clenching painfully—and it had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten breakfast.

He was stranded in the middle of a blustering ocean. If he moved, he wouldn't stop until he'd drowned himself. If he stayed, Doc might throw him a lifeline…or he might push him under the waves.

So he stood there as the pain crashed and then receded, only to crash again harder.

"You're safe, Danny. You can tell me."

He tried to swallow but he couldn't. Something was moving—was that his mouth?—but there was no sound.

He couldn't breathe.

He headed blindly for the door, but his hands were shaking, and he couldn't get a good grip on the doorknob.

He whirled, ready to lash out at Doc, to tell Doc to just leave him the hell alone and let him drown; but the choking pain in his lungs was back, and he couldn't breathe.

Doc was moving toward him in slow motion.

Why hadn't Doc just left him to drown?

Doc was saying something.

Then a hand was gripping his shoulder. "Breathe, Danny."

He tried to throw the hand off, but his back was to the door and he only banged his elbow into the door. He cursed, and Doc let go of him.

"Where did you go just now, Danny?"

He shook his head. "I don't…"

"You panicked, Danny. Where did you go?"

"I don't…I…can't…!"

"I think you can."

He slammed his right hand into the door. "You don't f-g get it, Doc! You never served! You don't know what it's like!"

Doc grabbed his arm. "Danny, I know you're hurting, but you cannot hurt yourself. That was strike one. Two more strikes—I will have you involuntarily admitted."

He couldn't…he wouldn't last in the psych ward. His shoulders slumped and he didn't struggle as Doc led him to the table.

The younger man locked eyes with him. "Danny, you're right that I don't know what it's like. But I do know that whatever happened in Fallujah that you're still blaming yourself for…wasn't your fault."

He sat down as Doc walked to the bottom of the stairs. "Linda, can you bring the first-aid kit?" he hollered.

Danny looked down at his hand. There was blood dripping from the bandage. He cursed.

Doc came back, sat down. "Whatever happened in Fallujah was not your fault, Danny," he said again.

"You don't know that, Doc!"

"Yes, I do. I might not know all the details, but there was enough information in your file—and the fact that you got the Bronze Star proves me right—to tell me that _you did your duty_."

Linda walked down then. "What happened, Doc?" Then she caught sight of Danny's hand. "Danny!"

She quickly cleaned and re-bandaged his hand. Then she bent down, looked him in the eyes. "I know you're hurting, Danny—but injuring yourself won't help." She kissed his hand tenderly. "Do you want me to stay?"

He shook his head. He couldn't tell Doc…not today, not in front of her.

Linda kissed him again. "Okay. I'll be upstairs if you need me. I love you," she said, and left.

He stared at his hands on the table. His knuckles hurt like hell.

He let out a shaky breath. "It was my fault our unit got captured."

"How was it your fault? Did you knowingly lead them into an ambush?"

He shook his head.

"What evidence do you have for thinking that it's your fault you're the only one who made it home?"

He froze. "What do you mean?"

"A claim needs evidence to back it up. You claim that it's your fault you're the only one who made it home. What evidence do you have to back up that claim?"

"Dammit, Doc, what sort of games are you playing with me?"

"Not a game, Danny. It's a technique to help you determine whether or not this thought lines up with reality—similar to how I questioned you to help you see that John Russell's death was not your fault."

John. He flinched at the memory of another rooftop, another soldier, a terrified little boy.

He didn't need evidence; he knew it was his fault.

"Did you shoot the bullets that killed your buddies? Did you push your buddies in front of you so they'd be killed first?"

"Dammit, Doc, of course not!"

"If you don't have hard evidence to prove your claim, then it's based on feelings."

He kicked one of the other chairs at the table, sending it flying across the room to crash into the fridge. "Go to hell, Doc! You think this is based on feelings? I was f-g _there_ , I know what happened!"

"Then tell me what happened," Doc said, too calmly.

He let the words flow…words he hadn't uttered out loud since his debriefing when he left the Marines.

Doc looked at him. "I still don't see how any of that was your fault, Danny. The evidence doesn't add up. Have you ever thought that maybe you're mis-interpreting the evidence?"

"Go to hell, Doc!"

"Okay, we'll come back to that another time." Doc rose, found two glasses, and filled them at the kitchen sink. He sat down, slid a glass over to Danny.

"Forgive my cynicism, but…I don't think you panicked—either Thursday night or just now—because you were thinking about the day your unit got captured. What was going on in your flashback?"

He took a long sip of water.

He had thought that the three days he was captured had been the worst days, but with those out in the open, other memories were returning. He'd told Doc about those days; he'd given him a summary of his tours; but breaking it down, telling Doc what had pushed him to the roof, what had made him panic just now—he didn't know if he could do that.

And he didn't think it was just one memory. Every Marine he had seen killed in front of him, next to him; every insurgent kid he had had to kill; every f-g dog he had to shoot. The day he watched seven Marines get killed by a grenade—a grenade that would have killed him, too, if not for dumb luck.

"What does it matter, Doc? I panicked, but I'm over it."

"Tell me about your flashback, Danny."

Doc wasn't messing around. He stood, shakily, walked over to the kitchen sink and leaned on it.

"I…can't."

The pain was drowning him again. If he tried to tell Doc, he wouldn't be able to keep his head above water, and there were no life-jackets left.

"I think you can," Doc said quietly.

The lump in his throat was choking him. His eyes were stinging, and he couldn't swallow, and he was going to drown if the pain didn't go away. "I…dammit, Doc!" His voice broke, and he cursed, kicked the cabinet hard enough to knock over a cup in the sink.

It shattered.

A chair scraped on the floor, and then Doc was standing next to him. "I won't make you talk anymore. You did good, Danny."

"I didn't…I…I can't…"

"It's okay, Danny. We'll do this at your pace. I thought it would help you to tell me about the flashback; but you're not ready yet, and that's okay. Do you want me to call Linda?"

He nodded, flinched when Doc hollered, and then Doc had left with a few whispered words to Linda, and her hand was on his shoulder. "Come sit down, Danny. You're okay."

He wasn't okay. He was pathetic. He couldn't even get through a therapy session without losing it. How much longer was Doc…or his family…going to put up with him?


	32. Chapter 32

He didn't want to sit down. He didn't want to talk. He'd just talked for an hour…well, he hadn't done that much talking…and it hadn't solved anything.

He wanted to be left alone. Problem was, he didn't know what he'd do if his family did leave him alone. No alcohol—couldn't drown the pain. No car keys—couldn't run away from the pain.

If he bolted—his dad would have the NYPD on his heels in five seconds. If he turned from the sink—he was afraid he'd hurt Linda.

So he stood there and held on to the sink as if it were the only thing keeping his head above water.

Linda was still talking, trying to get him to sit down. He shook his head. "Leave me alone!" he tried to yell, but his voice broke, and he cursed under his breath.

"I can't do that, Danny. Come sit down, try to eat something."

"Why aren't you mad?" he whispered. "I had a freaking panic attack; I couldn't even tell Doc about my flashback. I'm pathetic!"

"You're not pathetic, Danny; you're in pain. There's a difference."

His shoulders slumped, and he didn't resist when she gently turned him to face her. "It's okay, Danny."

"It's not…I'm not…it hasn't even been forty-eight hours, and I still can't breathe, and I want to run, or drink myself into oblivion, or get in the car and drive until I can't drive anymore…but I can't do any of those things, and I don't…" He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Danny. I wish I could take the pain away, but I…" Linda's voice broke. "I can sit with you and try to help you bear it, if you'll let me."

"I can't…you shouldn't…"

"Shhh…it's okay," she soothed. "If you can't eat, do you want to go upstairs?"

He nodded, followed her woodenly up the stairs. His vision was starting to blur, and he hoped he wasn't on the edge of another flashback.

Then he was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe, and Linda was holding him. "I'm here, Danny. You're not alone."

He wanted to scream, or cry, or somehow let the memories from Fallujah out so maybe, maybe they would stop hurting; but he didn't have the breath or the tears or the words, and he just sat there.

He was shaking. Pathetic excuse for a Marine, for a detective.

"We can talk later, Danny; I'm not going anywhere. Right now, though, you should lie down, try to get some rest."

He shook his head, even though his bones ached with tiredness, and he was so foggy he could hardly see straight. "I can't…"

"I'll wake you up the second you get restless, try to head off the nightmares."

He shrugged. "Okay, sure."

He lay down, buried his face in her chest, and finally fell asleep to the sound of her heartbeat.

* * *

Linda had had to wake him three times, and it was just after 2 p.m. when they went downstairs.

Jamie came in the kitchen door just then. He had a large bag on one arm, and two chocolate milkshakes in his hands. "Hey."

Danny nodded to him, sat down. "Thought you had a tour today."

Jamie shrugged, set the milkshakes on the table. "Nah, switched up with Rollins; he owed me."

"You changed your work schedule so you could take a shift of 'Danny-Babysitting-Duty'?"

His kid brother set the bag on the table, turned to face him. "It's not 'babysitting,' Danny; we're just trying to keep you safe."

Linda squeezed his shoulder. "Play nice," she whispered, and kissed him. "I'm going out to do the shopping for dinner tomorrow; call me if you need me. I love you."

"Love you more," he said, and kissed her.

"Love you most."

She left, and he heaved a sigh. He was alone with his kid brother for the first time since their fight Tuesday.

Jamie sat down, leaned his elbows on the table. "Honestly, Danny, if we left you alone with your thoughts and the car keys…where would those thoughts lead you, right now?"

He looked away, stared at his shoes. After a minute, he whispered, "Probably off a bridge."

"Which is exactly why we're not letting you be alone 'till those thoughts ease up."

Danny gestured at the bag. "What do you have in there?"

Jamie pushed it over to him.

He opened it, cursed when the object inside started to blur a little before his eyes. "Is that…?"

"Yeah. All this time, I thought you had it, but Dad said it was in the attic, with some of…Joe's things."

Joe. Damn, he missed his brother. "All this time, I thought _you_ had it. What'd you bring it down for?"

"I screwed up the other day, so I owe you a re-match."

He flinched, picked up his milkshake, and followed Jamie into the living room, where his kid brother hung the dart-board up. "You start."

He aimed, threw, missed, cursed.

Jamie missed his first dart, too. He cleared his throat. "I need to tell you something, brother."

"Game first, talk later."

He won—he was pretty sure Jamie had let him win, because his bandaged hands were totally screwing with his aim—and they settled on the couch.

Jamie leaned his elbows on his knees, stared at the floor. "I owe you an apology, Danny. I had no right to bust your chops for calling Dr. Dawson. I…didn't know you were hurting so much, Danny. You're my big brother, and…seeing you trapped in that flashback, seeing you _vulnerable_ …scared the hell out of me, and…I guess, I was trying to hide that I was afraid. I was out of line, and…I'm sorry."

He took a long drink of his milkshake. "Apology accepted," he said, and cleared his throat. "Trying to hide that you were afraid…sounds like there's a lot of that going around." Jamie glanced at him, looking confused, and he explained, "Doc's told me over and over again that people …use anger to hide a million other feelings that they don't like. Fear, pain, whatever the hell it is."

Jamie stared at the floor again. "I hope…I hope what I said didn't…contribute in any way to you going on the roof, making you feel like you had no one to turn to."

He shook his head. "It wasn't you, Jamie. I had a flashback, and I panicked. I haven't even been able to tell Doc what the flashback was about, because…thinking about it makes me panic. It wasn't you."

"Regardless, I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry, Danny. Forgive me?"

Jamie held out his hand, and Danny took it. He didn't resist as Jamie pulled him in for a quick hug. "Yeah, sure."

"What…can I do to help?" He shook his head, and Jamie went on, "Where's your head at, Dan?"

"Later, Jamie. I've done enough talking in the past day to last me a lifetime." Except for that morning. He'd hardly told Doc anything, and Doc was sure to be pissed at him.

The door opened and he heard his boys bounce in; then his father and grandfather's measured steps; and then the boys came into the room. "Uncle Jamie, Uncle Jamie! Grandpa said you weren't working today and you could take us to our hockey game! Come on, we're gonna be late!"

Jamie shot a glance at him—either he hadn't known or he'd forgotten—but rose, tousled the boys' hair good-naturedly. "Of course. Do you boys have your gear?"

They dragged him out of the room, and Danny sighed when his father walked into the room. "You aren't being very subtle about not letting me be alone."

"You heard the doctors, Danny. We're doing what we need to keep you safe." He sat down in his armchair. "How are you doing, son?"

He kicked the table. "Sick and tired of everyone asking me that! I just…wish you all would leave me alone! I get why you're not, but…I just want everybody to treat me like normal, instead of like I'm going to break if you look at me sideways!"

"Danny, none of us thinks you're weak," his dad said firmly.

"Great." Like he believed that. "Now, can we please do anything other than talk about how I'm doing?"

"Of course. Wanna play chess?"

"Sure," he whispered.

When the game finally ended in a draw, he relaxed just a bit when he realized it had lasted two hours. Somehow his dad had gotten him talking about the boys and Linda and anything except work, and his thoughts hadn't turned dark once.

He slogged through darts with his boys, dinner with 5/8 of his family, and after-dinner watching the game.

* * *

After the game, Danny headed straight for the stairs without a word to anyone, and Linda followed him.

He was changing into his pajamas, his movements harsh, angry, and she grabbed his hands to still them. "What's wrong, Danny?"

He shook his head, tried to pull away, and then sank onto the bed when he couldn't. "Nothing's wrong. I just…"

"You're angry. What's you got you so worked up?"

He kicked at the pile of clothes he'd just taken off. "My stupid, stupid brain! I can't…"

She wrapped her arms around him. He was shaking with fury. "Leave me alone, Linda! I don't wanna hurt you!"

"You won't hurt me, Danny," she said, and tightened her grip. "Tell me what's wrong."

He tried again to pull away from her, then suddenly stopped, his shoulders slumping in despair. "I'm so f-g sick and tired of not having five seconds alone! And I'm pissed at that. But…at the same time…if I had five seconds, I wouldn't be able to talk myself out of walking out the front door and not stopping until the Bay went over my head. And that pisses me off even more! That I'm so blasted weak, I'm even thinking of ending it all!"

She pulled his head to her shoulder, ran her fingers through his hair. "I won't let you drown, Danny."

"What if you can't stop me?" The words were muffled, broken. "What if this is something I have to fight on my own, and none of you can help me?"

"It's not, Danny. Doc told us…the depression is going to tell you that you're all alone, that no one cares, that you're a burden. But it's lying, Danny. You're not alone. I'm here. Jamie changed his tour so he could spend time with you this afternoon. Erin's going to come over for a couple days next week."

"All you just told me was that I'm messing with everyone's schedules and being a burden!"

"No, Danny, no. None of us thinks you're a burden. We love you! I hate seeing you in pain. I want…" Her voice broke. "I want you to live, Danny. I will do anything you need me to do to keep you from drowning, to let you know you're not alone. Just…don't ask me to leave you alone. Please."

He shook his head. "I'm tired." He pulled away from her, kissed her, and lay down. She pulled him close. "Love you," he whispered.

"Love you more," she said.

"Love you most," he said, and closed his eyes, snuggled into her.

* * *

Linda bolted upright, heart racing. She'd dreamed that Danny…that Danny…

She reached to his side of the bed.

The sheets were cold, wet, empty. He wasn't there.

"Danny!" she called, and stood up, nearly tripping over him.

He was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

She dropped to her knees, pulled him into her arms. His pajamas were soaked.

"Danny, what's wrong?"

He shook his head, clung to her.

He was trembling, and his tears were hot on her skin, though his own arms were wet with a cold sweat.

She rubbed at his back. "I'm here, it's okay, you're okay."

He shook his head, and she held him, whispered quiet reassurances into his ear until the tears stopped. Then she pulled him to his feet. "You're freezing, Danny. Let's get you warmed up and in some dry clothes."

A hot shower until he stopped shivering, a clean pair of his warmest USMC sweats, and dry sheets because his side of the bed was soaked with sweat; then she tucked the blanket around both of them, and put her arms around him. "I'm listening," she said quietly.

"Nightmare," he sighed, and shuddered. "About a month into my first tour…we'd seen some fighting but nothing too bad…we'd just cleared a house. I'd gone in first, so I was the last to leave. The four guys with me were about twenty feet away. All of a sudden a grenade landed in the middle of them. I yelled 'grenade!' and dove for cover. They were blown to bits before they could even try to run. I fired at the insurgent, and then I ran back inside the house we'd just cleared, up the ladder to the roof, and emptied my weapon into the roof."

He shuddered. "I don't know why I remembered that, but…that's why I bolted Thursday night. If I'd been quicker, if I'd been closer…"

"If you'd been any closer to them, you would've been blown away, too. It wasn't your fault, Danny."

Fear stabbed her in the heart when he didn't respond with his usual outbursts of "It was my fault!" or "It should have been me!"

She rubbed at his back. "Where's your head at, Danny?"

"I'm tired. I want to stop remembering, I want to stop hurting, but if I stop remembering…then I'm betraying the guys we lost."

"Talk to Doc. I know there are techniques he can teach you so that you can remember without having a flashback or a panic attack every time something reminds you of Fallujah."

He nodded, and she kissed him. "Do you think you can sleep?"

He shrugged. "Don't leave me?"

"Never, Danny," she said, lying down and pulling him close.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: This chapter contains my second original character; he walked right onto the page and wouldn't go away**.

* * *

They were walking out of church the next morning when a priest—not much older than him, but walking with a cane—came up to them. "Danny Reagan?"

He frowned. The priest looked awfully familiar, but it couldn't be…he hadn't known…but he'd heard about the explosion and the resulting limp, the scarred face… "Padre…I mean…Father Donovan?"

"In the flesh, Danny."

He held out his hand; the older man gripped it, pulled him in for a half-hug, pounded him on the back. "Your dad told me you'd come to Mass with him today. How've you been?"

He shrugged. "You know how it is, Padre." He cleared his throat. "Linda, this is Father Thomas Donovan, the older brother of our pastor. He was our chaplain on…my second tour. Father, my wife, Linda."

"It's an honor to meet you, Father. Thank you for your service," Linda said, and Danny saw the priest flinch.

She put a hand on his arm. "I'll let you two catch up; take your time, Danny. I'll be in the car."

He nodded, squeezed her hand, then sat down in the back pew with the priest. "How long have you been back in New York? Last I heard you were in rehab in New Jersey."

"Just over a month. But I didn't come over here to tell you about rehab. How are you doing?"

He froze, and the priest said, "I'm still on sick leave. I have time to talk, Danny."

If his dad had set this up… He would have cursed if he hadn't been in church. "What did my dad tell you?"

"Nothing; he just said you'd be glad to see me. Honestly, how are you doing?" the priest asked again.

 _Same old, same old_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he'd always been honest with the priest during his time in Fallujah; he couldn't lie now… "Not too good." He sighed. "Shoved everything down for nine years. Told myself I'd gotten over it. The nightmares…told me I hadn't."

He let out a shaky breath. Then quietly, slowly, he told the priest about the past five weeks.

"About 6 weeks ago, caught a case; Army vet with PTSD beat up his wife and kidnapped his kid. It took a few days to find him...found him five weeks ago today, on a Sunday, with his kid, on a roof. We got the kid to safety. I tried to talk John down, but...he killed himself, Padre."

"I'm so sorry, Danny."

He nodded.

"Sent me into a f-g tailspin. Flashbacks, nightmares, depression, suicidal thoughts. Ended up on a rooftop Thursday night, until my shrink talked my down. I'm on at-home suicide watch now."

"Dear God," the priest whispered; and it was a prayer, not a curse. He held his breath, waiting for the older man to tell him that he was going to go to hell for even thinking that. But all Padre said was, "I'm sorry you're in so much pain, Dan. Forgive me for asking, but…do you still want to kill yourself?"

He flinched. "Part of me wants to just get up and start walking, and not stop until I walk off a bridge or into the Bay. I can't shake the thought that the pain will stop if I…ended it all." He shook his head. "I haven't had five minutes to myself since Thursday night, which is probably not a bad thing. It's…easier. But there's only so much talking I can stand, and everyone's hovering, and they think if they keep talking it'll keep me safe."

"Your family loves you; that's why they're doing that."

He shook his head. "Why did I find John Russell alive…and then have to stand there and watch while he let himself fall backwards off the roof? Why the hell didn't God just let all thirteen of us die?"

"I don't know, Dan. But you can ask Him those questions. That's what prayer is—talking to Him just like you're talking to me right now."

"I don't think ' _Dear God, make it stop_!' counts as a prayer—not when I'm saying it in the middle of Mass because the only thing keeping me from getting up and walking into the Bay is Linda holding my hand, and the boys on the other side of me."

"That most certainly is a prayer."

He shook his head bitterly. "I should've died over there—more than once. You _know_ that, Padre!"

"Humanly speaking, you should have died—I agree with you on that. But obviously, God thought that it wasn't your time." He was quiet for a moment, then said, slowly, "It's not your fault you survived and the rest of your unit didn't."

He kicked the pew in front of them. "How the hell do you know that?"

"Because you and I had a lot of conversations in those last few weeks, after you returned from the hospital and before the end of your tour. You told me everything that happened. Are you telling me you forgot our chats?"

He shook his head. "I remember just fine. Can we not…?"

"You need to know it's not your fault."

"My shrink's been telling me that for weeks; it hasn't helped."

The priest gripped his shoulder. "When we talked all those years ago…I didn't get it. I understand, now, some of what you were going through. The grenade that left me…like this?"—he gestured to the cane, his leg, his scarred face—"I'd gone into town to administer the Last Rites, and then I caught a ride back to base with some of our men; a grenade hit our Humvee. I was the only survivor."

"But it wasn't your fault!"

"Logically, I know that, Dan. Just as you logically know that it wasn't your fault. But emotionally… you think I don't still blame myself? Because I do…every day."

He stared at the priest's cane. "And you're functioning? The guilt hasn't eaten you alive, paralyzed you, made you think that you might as well be dead?"

"I've struggled, Dan; I still am, every morning I wake up. But my Faith, and a good therapist, and wanting to get better…has helped." He cleared his throat. "How's your prayer life?"

He shrugged. "Non-existent. I go to Sunday Mass, confession semi-regularly. I was going through the motions for years. Tried a bit harder, after…my younger son Sean was in a bike accident; coma; talk of brain swelling. I prayed…well, I talked to my brother Joe, asked him to put in a good word with the Big Guy for me. These past five weeks…I'm angry with God."

"There's nothing wrong with being angry with God, Danny. He's a big God; He can take it. Just as long as you keep talking to Him."

"How?" he whispered.

"The Psalms are a good place to start; David's own prayers to God."

"Funny. Your brother told me the same thing in confession two weeks ago. He also recommended some Psalm about drowning, which was weird, because my shrink…recognized I was drowning before even I did."

"God can work in strange metaphors. Psalm 69 is a good one. Have you put my brother's advice into practice?"

He hung his head. "No. Everything's been so hard lately. Just trying to keep my head above water, has taken…all of my energy."

"I'd like you and Linda to take five minutes a day, reading the Psalms. You don't have to go in chronological order; you can look up a theme online, and find one that way. Start with Psalm 69, if that's the one that speaks to you right now. Read it slowly, and talk to God about it—out loud."

He shot a sideways glance at the priest, who smiled. "What? Who says Catholics can't pray out loud? Tell God you're drowning, tell Him you're ticked at Him, tell Him you blame Him—just open the door a crack. Will you do that for me?"

"I'll…try," he whispered.

"You mentioned you're in therapy. One thing that I hope your doctor has asked you—and if not, I'm asking you—do you want to get better?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" He glanced at the priest, then the Tabernacle. "Sorry."

"Recovery hurts, Dan. Facing the memories, not burying them…hurts like a you-know-what. But you have to be willing to endure that pain in the hope that, eventually, you will heal. And healing means being able to look back on your time in Fallujah and say: 'That was hell, but I survived, and I'm alive, and I'm grateful I'm alive.' To stop burying the memories and be able to face them without having a panic attack. Do you want to get better?"

He shuddered. On one hand, he just wanted to bury it all back down in the box he'd kept the memories in for so long, throw away the key, and go back to normal life before John Russell, where he tried his hardest to not think about Fallujah during the day, and only had to face those demons in his nightmares. But on the other hand, talking, telling other living, breathing human beings, about the worst years of his life, was making the pain a little better.

"I…I guess so. But I'm afraid that if I 'get better,' I'll forget, and that would be worse than…"

"You don't have to live in pain in order to honor the memory of the guys you lost," Padre said quietly. "You'll always remember then, Dan."

He shook his head, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. How had Padre known…? O yeah, that whole connection with God thing where Padre seemed to know what to say when he himself couldn't find the words.

"I'm tired of the pain, Padre," he whispered. Tired of Fallujah always in the background, haunting him, threatening to rise at any moment and pull him under.

"Talk to your doctor about ways to still honor their memory, Dan. Also, if you want"—he reached into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen—and jotted a number down—"here's my cell phone number. Call me any time, day or night; I still have at least six months of sick leave left."

He took the paper, nodded. "Thanks, Padre. Excuse me for just a second." He walked outside, called his dad.

"Hey, Danny, what's up?"

"Is there room at family dinner for Father Thomas Donovan?"

"Of course. I'm glad he found you."

"Thanks, Dad," he whispered, and hung up.

He went back inside, sat down. "I should get going, but…if you're free, we'd love to have you at family dinner."

The priest hummed. "I don't know, Danny…"

"Please, Padre! My family would love to meet the priest who kept me Catholic during—and after—my second tour."

The priest glanced at his watch. "O, all right, Dan."

He rose, genuflected; and they walked out of the church to where Linda was waiting.


	34. Chapter 34

Linda drove, and he sat in the back so Padre could stretch his leg out.

Padre was telling her a story—more embarrassing to Danny than actually funny—and he shook his head. "Do you remember that, Danny?" the priest asked as Linda chuckled.

He shrugged. "Yeah, sure," he whispered, and squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

_The second time he wakes up in the hospital in some nameless town in Iraq, the other bed is empty. He curses, and then shrinks back into the bed when a voice says, "Danny, it's Padre Donovan. Can you hear me?"_

_He blinks in the too-bright light. His head's killing him and his vision's blurry. Stupid drugs. It has to be drugs, it can't be tears; he's a Reagan and a Marine and a cop, and none of those men cry. "Padre?" he whispers. "Where…where's Jonesy? How's Jimmy doing, and Matt, and…and John?"_

" _I'm sorry, Danny. I'm so sorry."_

_He beats his fist against the flimsy mattress, cursing at the pain that shoots up his arm. If they had died, that would mean… "Dammit, Padre, don't tell me that!"_

" _I can't lie to you, Dan."_

_He shakes his head, cursing. "Don't f-g tell me that I'm the only one out of thirteen who survived that hellhole!"_

_He tries to sit up, ready to leave and walk back to the base, find the camp in which they'd been held, and blast the insurgents to pieces; but the room spins and his ears ring with the noise of a million grenades going off; then there is a prick in his arm, and the world goes black._

* * *

Someone was rubbing his back. "Breathe, Danny!" He blinked. He was in the car…Linda's car…in Bay Ridge, safe in New York. Linda was sitting next to him, rubbing his back and whispering something. Padre was standing next to the car, leaning in the open door.

"I'm sorry, Danny," Padre said. "If I'd known that seeing me would upset you this much, I wouldn't have come. I should go…"

He shook his head, tried to swallow. "No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, let out a shaky breath. "It's not your fault, Padre. I've been having flashbacks anyway. Just…" He forced his eyes open. "Linda, can you give me a minute with Padre?"

She kissed his cheek. "Of course. Take your time, Danny. I'll go talk to the family." She climbed down from the back seat, walked around to Padre and whispered something to him—probably telling the priest to go easy on him—and went inside.

He swiped at his eyes. His heart was going one hundred miles a minute, and he took a shaky breath, let it out. "Padre, do you remember the night after Jonesy died? You didn't even have to tell me, I just knew from your body language, all four of them were gone."

"I remember, Dan," Padre said sadly.

"How…how long was that? After we'd been rescued?"

"Just a little over forty-eight hours. You and Jonesy had been doing well; and then overnight, he took a turn for the worse—internal bleeding—and they lost him on the operating table. I…didn't want you to be alone when you woke up."

"Padre, they _tortured_ us. Why the hell didn't I die?"

"I don't know, Dan. You'd lost a lot of blood; you were in and out of consciousness. You kept saying Jonesy's name, which is why they put the two of you in the same room."

"He was my best friend."

"I know." Padre put a hand on his arm. "Their deaths weren't your fault, Dan."

He wanted to explode but he was too damned tired. He shook his head. "I wish I could believe you, Padre."

"Try, Dan. Keep talking to your therapist about this. Pray about it. I know for a fact God doesn't want you carrying this burden any longer."

He shook his head. Like God cared. "They're going to send out a search party if we're out here much longer," he muttered, and got out of the car, shakily followed the priest inside his father's house.

* * *

Frank frowned when Linda herded Jamie and Erin into the sitting room. "What's going on, Linda?"

She quickly told them. "I'll try to tell Father this, but…keep the conversation as light as possible; no shop-talk, no cases, no arguments. Danny had a bad flashback on the drive home; I think from seeing Father."

"Danny's been fine for the past nine years; why is he remembering everything now? And if he wasn't fine then…why didn't he talk to anyone?" Jamie wondered aloud.

Frank cleared his throat. "He didn't talk to anyone because he didn't want to appear weak. I suggested it to him a couple times, but I was also afraid… if I pushed him, he'd end up…he'd end up in a place where the only way he saw out was to take his own life." Frank sighed. "I don't know he's been fine for the past nine years; I think he's just been throwing himself into work, so he doesn't have to remember. Being a workaholic is a common coping mechanism for veterans."

He heard the front door open, and he walked into the kitchen to greet his son's former chaplain.

He winced when he saw Danny. His son's face was ashen, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed. He was moving slowly, as if he hadn't fully come back from the flashback.

He shook the priest's hand. "Thanks for coming over, Father. Please, come in." He walked the priest into the sitting room, where Linda began introductions, then went back into the kitchen.

Danny stood at the kitchen sink, splashing cold water on his face. He was groping for the paper towels when Frank pressed some into his hand. "Linda told us what's going on. We're not in a rush."

"I hate this, Dad! I was f-g fine for nine years!"

"Burying the pain isn't the same as being fine, Danny."

Danny shook his head, leaned on the sink. "It was a helluva lot easier than flashbacks."

He put a careful hand on his son's shoulder. "I'll try to stall a bit, but Jamie and Erin will need to come back in here to finish dinner."

* * *

He nodded. He wanted to skip dinner and sleep, but that would be an open invitation to nightmares. So he needed to get himself under control before his siblings came back in. "I need to go put a clean shirt on; can you send Linda up?" He asked, and headed for the stairs.

He'd sweated through the dress shirt he'd worn to Mass. Stupid flashback.

He stripped, washed off the sweat, and was putting on deodorant when he heard a knock on the bathroom door. "Danny?" He unlocked it, let Linda in, and didn't resist as she pulled him in for a hug. "Feeling better?"

He shrugged. "No. Feeling cleaner, though. Can't I just skip dinner, tell the family I've got the flu or something?"

She shook her head against his chest, ran her finger along the scars—thankfully without asking about them. He didn't think he could handle that conversation. "You know the rules, Danny. And I talked to Padre; he'll keep the conversation light. Though he did want to know…if the boys ask how he knows you…"

"Tell 'em the truth. They already know I'm screwed up."

She turned his face towards her, looked hard into his eyes. "No, they do not. They know you saw a lot of bad stuff in Iraq; they know you're in pain. They know sometimes your brain plays tricks on you and makes you think you're back there instead of safe at home. They do _not_ think you're 'screwed up.'"

He nodded and went into the bedroom to put on a clean shirt. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, and Linda came up to him, deftly buttoned them. "It's okay, Danny."

He shook his head. "How are we going to get the boys to school?"

"Jamie will take them in the morning, and I'll pick them up."

"That's a lot of driving."

"It's okay. We'll make it work, Danny. All you need to focus on is working with Doc, and doing your homework."

He let her fix his tie, and followed her downstairs.

Padre led grace, and then the questions started—everyone talking over each other. His grandfather shushed them all, and Jack piped up, "Father, how do you know my dad?"

"I was his chaplain on his second tour in Iraq."

"O cool!" the young teen said, and Danny flinched, set his fork down. He saw the priest wince a little, too, and wondered how he was going to answer his son. "What was Dad like?"

Danny shook his head, leaned his chin in his hands. This was going to go worse than he'd thought. He should have gone to bed.

Father Donovan shrugged slightly. "Pretty much like he is now—hot-headed, loyal to a fault, determined."

Erin smirked and Jamie shook his head.

Padre looked hard at the boys, then at Nikki. "Jack, Sean, Nikki…I'm sure your parents have told you this, but I want to listen carefully to me. War is not 'cool.' It's ugly, it's tragic, and it's sad. Serving your country is honorable, but war for the sake of war—is horrible. And killing people—even though it has to be done in the line of duty—is always, always a tragedy. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Jack frowned, thinking hard, then nodded. "I think so. Dad saw a lot of really bad things."

"Yes, he did. But now's not a good time to talk about that." Padre sipped at his water. "Frank, what's your favorite part about being the police commissioner?"

"Probably getting to know my officers on a personal level. It doesn't happen as often as I like, but when it does, I'm generally pleased. Although there was this one time…"

His dad told the story, with his grandfather and Erin chiming in, and Danny picked up his fork, moved the salad around his plate. It had always worked before to make his family think he was eating; only person he had never been able to fool with that trick had been his mother, God rest her soul.

He flinched when Linda slipped her arm around his waist. "Frank, are there any home repair projects Danny and I could help you with while we're here?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that, Linda."

"Come on, we'll be here for two weeks, let us help."

"Why are we going to be here for two weeks?" Sean asked.

His fork slipped out of his hand at that question. He had thought they had answered that to the boys' satisfaction. "Because your dad's screwed up," he muttered under his breath.

Linda rubbed his back. "We already told you this, Sean. Dad's not feeling well, and he's off work till he's feeling better, so we're taking a little family vacation."

"We never had to take two weeks of vacation at Grandpa's before," Sean sulked.

"Are you saying you don't like staying here?" his dad asked.

"Sean, Jack, take your plates and go into the kitchen," Linda said sternly.

"Aww, don't send the kids away," Danny muttered. "I'm the one responsible for this mess."

He pushed his chair back, bolted blindly for the back door and his mother's garden.

All he did these days, anything he did, he screwed up. He'd screwed with his boys' schedules and lives, with his wife's work schedule, with his dad's. Maybe it was a good thing for _him_ to be at his dad's for two weeks, but had he given a thought to his boys, to his wife? Maybe his dad and grandfather didn't want him and his wife and their grandsons underfoot for two weeks.

No, all he did was think about himself. Stupid, selfish man.

 _You don't deserve this family_.

"Why are you so angry with yourself?"

It was his dad, and he whirled. "O come on, Dad! Why do you think? I've messed with everyone's schedules; my kids are mad at me; I'm being a burden to everyone…"

"We're your family, Dan. It's okay to lean on us. Every one of us wants you to find healing, and we want to help—that's why Pop and I suggested you stay with us."

He shook his head. "Maybe you can't help! Maybe I can't 'find healing,' Dad; maybe it's too late."

"You're still alive, Dan; it's not too late. But you have to be willing to get better—not for our sake, but because you deserve to get better! Which means facing all of this head-on."

"O, go to hell. You think I asked for this, you think I f-g like the flashbacks and the panic attacks and being in so much pain I want to kill myself?"

"I didn't say that, Danny. What would you tell Jamie if he were in your shoes?"

His breath caught. "What?"

"You heard me, Danny. If Jamie were depressed and suicidal and told you that he didn't deserve to be alive…what would you tell him?"

"Well, first, Jamie wouldn't feel that way, and secondly, he'd never confide in me. That's what he had Joe for."

"Hypothetically, Danny, what would you tell Jamie?"

He kicked at the low brick wall surrounding the garden. "I don't know."

" _Think_ , Danny. Your brother's life is in danger from his own hands…what would you tell him?"

He shook his head. "I'd tell him…that he wouldn't always feel depressed, that things would get better. And it would just be a whole bunch of platitudes that wouldn't help."

He shuddered. His dad nodded. "Those are the exact same things we're trying to tell you, Danny; and they're not platitudes. Why won't you believe us?"

"Because I'm not the golden boy! I'm just a f-g grunt!"

"You are much more than just a grunt, Danny. And you deserve as much healing and happiness as Jamie would, if he were in your shoes."

He shook his head, flinched when his dad put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, it's cold out here, let's go inside."

Reluctantly, he followed his dad inside. Everyone had finished dinner, and Padre was telling the kids a funny story. He grabbed his still-full plate, carried it into the kitchen, scraped the food into the garbage can.

Erin had made coffee, and he sat back down next to Linda, who reached for his hand, squeezed it.

Padre finished his story, and Jack said, "Dad's been home from Iraq for like forever, and he's never had someone he knew back then over for dinner. So why'd he invite you?"

Padre was quiet for a long minute, then said, slowly, "Because I'm a priest, Jack, I was able to be there for your dad when no one else was."

Jack frowned. "What do you mean, Father?"

Padre glanced at Danny, who shrugged. "On his second tour, all the guys in your dad's unit were killed. Your dad is the only one who made it home."

"That's awful!" Jack said, and stood up, ran over, and tackled Danny in a hug.

He brought his arms up to hug his boy.

He blinked furiously. He couldn't let Jack see his tears. He tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat was choking him.

His phone rang just then— _saved by the bell_ , he thought—and he pulled away, stood up. "Sorry, kiddo, gotta take this. Excuse me, Padre, Dad."

He walked into the kitchen and closed the door. "Hey, Doc."

"Hey, Danny. How are you?"

He shrugged. "F-g great. I bumped into my old chaplain after Mass. Had a long talk with him. It was almost like a session with you, with a bit more faith thrown in."

"You know, Danny, if it would help, we can talk about your faith in these sessions. You've never brought it up, though, so…"

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm good, Doc."

"Okay. I won't keep you long. What's going through your head right now?"

"I'm tired. I'm hurting my family, I know I'm hurting them; I'm being a burden to them; and no matter how much everyone f-g tells me that I need to heal for my own sake, I don't…" He shook his head. "I'm f-g sick and tired of being depressed, but trying to heal just sounds like it would take too much work, and I just want to crawl under the covers and go to sleep."

"I'm sorry to hear that. If I promised you the pain would end, that you would not be depressed for the rest of your life, would that give you a reason to keep living?"

"If I believed you, maybe."

"Would I lie to you, Danny?"

"No," he whispered.

"I want you to work on your homework tonight: add three more things to that list of the lies depression tells you, find two reasons to keep living, and two things you like about yourself. Will you do that for me? That's seven things; it shouldn't take you more than ten minutes."

"Sure." Anything to get Doc off his back. It wasn't going to help, though; he wasn't going to find any reasons. "Thanks, Doc," he said, and hung up.

He turned from the sink to see Jack standing there, shaking. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I promise!" the teen said, with tears in his eyes.

"Come here," Danny said, and held his arms out.

Jack rushed at him, threw his arms around his waist. "I'm sorry, Daddy!" he said, the words muffled against Danny's chest. "I'm sorry all your friends died! But I'm so glad you came home!"

"Yeah, and why is that?" the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Jack pulled away, looked him in the eye with a fierceness Danny had never seen before. "Because you're my dad. And I love you. And I don't want you to die!" He burst into tears then, and Danny pulled him in for a hug.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so sorry," he murmured.

When Jack's sobs had slowed, Danny led him over to the table. He sat down, and Danny got the milk out of the fridge, rummaged around till he found the bottle of chocolate syrup. He made them two glasses of chocolate milk, then sat down. He handed Jack his glass. "I'm sorry, kiddo," he said again. "How's school?"

He half-listened as his boy told him all about school, until Linda walked in. "Sorry to interrupt, but Padre needs to get back to the rectory. Jack, go change out of your church clothes. Uncle Jamie's going to take you boys to shoot some hoops."

* * *

Linda parked, and he got out, walked the priest to the rectory door. "Thanks for the chat, Padre."

"You're welcome, Dan. I have one question for you."

He winced. He wasn't going to like this. Padre had always had a way of saving hard truths for last.

"What would Jimmy Beale—God rest his soul—say to you?"

He caught his breath sharply. Corporal Jimmy Beale had been a friend, and a brother; he'd saved Danny's life three…no, four…times in Iraq, and the bullet that ultimately killed him had been meant for Danny.

"He'd tell me to get my head out of my you-know-what. And that killing myself would be the same as letting the insurgents kill another Marine."

"And he would be right. They would win if you killed yourself. And you would leave another family—your family—grieving."

Images flashed through his mind…Linda in black, the boys in shock, Jamie beating the punching bag until he broke his knuckles, Erin working around the clock, Nikki crying herself to sleep, his grandfather suffering another heart attack, his father thinking about eating his gun…

Padre gripped his hand, pulled him in for another half-hug. "Listen to your doctor, Dan, do your homework, lean on your family, and call me any time, day or night, if you need to vent. Okay?"

He nodded. "Thanks, Padre."


	35. Chapter 35

"I saved you some dinner," Linda said quietly as she parked the car back in front of his dad's house. "After you eat, maybe we could go for a walk, get some sunshine."

He shook his head. "Not hungry. Besides, I need to do my homework." He didn't want to, but Doc was gonna stop working with him if he didn't.

"Homework can wait. You need to eat something, Danny. All you had was coffee before Mass, and you hardly touched your dinner. Please, Danny!"

He couldn't stand the fear in her voice, so he drank the entire bottle of Gatorade, ate the salad, and choked down six bites of roast beef.

Then he rinsed his plate, jammed it in the dishwasher. He was heading for the stairs (and, he hoped, peace and quiet) when she said quietly, "If we go for a quick walk now, we'll catch the sunset."

He stopped with his hand on the banisters. "It's cold." He was whining, but he hated being cold—thanks to too many nights on patrol in Fallujah.

"You didn't hate the cold before…your tours."

He shuddered. "It…gets really cold in the desert at night."

She came up beside him, put her arm around his waist. "I can help warm you up when we get back," she said suggestively. "Come on, Doc still wants you to get sunshine."

He muttered under his breath, but got his coat and hat, and followed her down the street.

She slipped her hand into his. "Where's your head at, Danny?"

He shook his head. "I'm tired of talking. Can we not?"

She squeezed his hand. "Of course. But I'm here, Danny. Okay?"

He nodded, and they walked down to the pier his dad liked to fish from.

When they got there, he leaned on the railing, stared down at the water. He flinched when she slipped her arm around his waist. "I'm not going to jump," he muttered.

"Danny!" Her voice was thick with tears, and he cursed. All he was doing was hurting his family.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "That was…"

She rubbed his back. "No, I…I'm glad you told me that. I…think I needed to hear that. Why are you so angry, Danny?"

"Too many people giving me advice. I can't even tell you anyone what's going through my head without you or Dad or Jamie or Erin getting emotional or defensive or angry! Maybe I just…need someone to listen."

"I'm sorry, Danny. I'm listening."

"Padre said I would know I had healed when I could look back on my time in Fallujah without having a flashback, but being grateful I'm alive." He scoffed. "Not sure what there is to be grateful for."

"You're alive, Danny. Think of all the people you've helped in the nine years you've been home, the kids you've saved, the victims you've gotten justice for, the bad guys you've put away. Plenty of reason there for you to be alive."

She meant every word she said, he knew that. It just didn't mean anything to him.

He shook his head, leaned more heavily on the railing. The water was rushing to meet him and he swayed, stepped back in fear. "No, no…"

"What's wrong?"

"Dizzy."

"Come sit down."

He followed her to the picnic table, sat down, leaned his head in his hands. Tears were pricking his eyes, and he cursed. "I'm scared, Linda. Just now…I was dizzy and the water was rushing up to meet me and I couldn't stop thinking that I should just climb the railing and jump. I've told Doc so, so much, and it hasn't even…touched the pain. Can…can we go home now?"

She nodded, stood up, pulled him to his feet. "Yes. It's okay. You're okay, Danny. Let's go home."

By the time they made it home, he was shaking—and it wasn't just from the cold. He took his blasted pills, and didn't argue when Linda suggested that she had a few ideas to warm him up.

* * *

It was 9 p.m. and completely dark when he sat down at the kitchen table, armed with his homework and two pens. He ached for his gun and two fingers of whiskey, but neither one was available.

His father and grandfather sat in companionable silence in the sitting room, respectively reading and doing a crossword puzzle. He relaxed just a bit when neither one wandered into the kitchen with a flimsy excuse. Linda had probably told them to leave him alone—while not leaving him alone, which meant they were keeping an eye on him.

He unfolded the paper Doc had given him yesterday. "Lies Depression Tells Me." The first three were already there, with space for him to fill in more. And Doc, dammitall, wanted three more.

_I don't deserve other people worrying about me._

_I don't deserve to be alive._

_I will always feel depressed._

He cursed as he filled in the next few lines.

_Jonesy and the others are dead because of me._

_My family would be happier without me._

_I don't deserve to be happy._

The problem was, he wasn't really sure those were lies. He was just writing them down so he could tell Doc he'd done his f-g homework.

Then he turned to the next page. The words "REASONS TO KEEP LIVING" blurred before his eyes, and he cursed. He couldn't even make up anything to get Doc off his back.

 _My family needs me_? he thought, and shook his head. That wasn't gonna be good enough for Doc. Doc kept telling him he needed to find a reason apart from his family. Problem was, if it weren't for his family, he'd be in the same place Michael Oates had been—homeless, murdered, and buried. He cursed.

He knew all the platitudes Doc wanted him to spout off. Life would get better, he wouldn't always be depressed. Blah, blah, blah.

He heard someone clear his throat, and he jumped. "Easy, Danny, it's just me."

It was his dad. "Hey."

"How you doing? You've been in here a while."

He frowned, glanced at the microwave. 10 p.m. already? "This was supposed to take me twenty minutes, max."

"Can I help?"

He shook his head. "Doc wants me to do this myself."

"Well, what are you having trouble with?" his dad asked, sitting down.

He slid the paper over to him. His dad read it, but didn't say anything.

He shook his head. He was so tired he felt like he was going to cry, but he wouldn't let himself be that weak. "Doc wants these to be dependent on, like, me seeing that I have reasons in and of myself to keep living. Problem is…" He trailed off, shook his head.

"What about the reasons Doc doesn't want? Give me one reason that you think Doc wouldn't accept."

He shrugged. "My family needs me."

"We do. Maybe Doc won't accept that, but I think that's a pretty damn good reason, Danny. What do you think Doc would want you to put down?"

"O, B.S. crap like 'life will get better if I stay alive.'"

"It's true, Danny."

"Dad, I'm so f-g angry of feeling like this! Nothing's working! Talking isn't working, the pills aren't working, leaning on my family isn't working…what if…I can't…?"

"Danny…"—his dad's voice was strangled—"healing takes time. You didn't get in this situation overnight, and it's not gonna heal overnight. If I could take this from you, bear it for you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I can't. So what do you need me to do?"

"Stop talking and play a game of darts without me before I punch a hole in the wall?"

"Sure thing."

After the game—which he lost—he headed for the stairs. "Thanks, Dad. 'Night."

When he got into the bedroom, Linda was in the bathroom, and he walked over to the window, stared out into the blackness.

* * *

Linda found him staring out the window, and she slipped her arm around his waist. "Come sit down, talk to me, Danny. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay," he yelled. "I shouldn't be here! I should be dead! I don't deserve to be alive! I don't deserve this family!"

Danny took a turn around the room. He was shaking with anger, and she felt a stirring of fear.

He paced so long she was getting dizzy watching him; then his knees buckled and he sank to the ground.

She dropped to her knees beside him. He was shaking, but there were no tears. He flinched away from her. "Leave me alone; I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not going to hurt me, Danny."

She put her arm around his shoulders, bit her lip when he flinched again. "Do you trust me?"

He nodded.

"Then listen to me, Danny. You asked me last night not to leave you, and I'm not going anywhere. I need you to trust me. I know you're angry, but I also know you won't hurt me."

"Linda, I'm so f-g angry I can't see straight! I hate this! Twenty minutes ago, I thought I was gonna cry, now I'm so blasted angry! I hate this!" He shook his head, cursed vehemently.

"Then use that anger to fight the depression," she said, and rubbed his shoulders.

"I don't know how," he whispered.

"I don't know what Doc would say, but talk back to those thoughts, the voice in your head that tells you you're worthless. Tell it it's a blasted liar. Tell it to go die in a God-forsaken hole. Tell it you deserve better."

"I don't deserve you."

"None of that, Danny. I need you just as much as you need me. I'm not going anywhere, Danny. If you need me to be your strength, to remind you that you are loved and you are lovable—I can do that. If you need to lean on me because you can't stand—that's what I'm here for. If you need me to pull you out from under the water—all you have to do is ask."

"I'm so—"

She covered his lips with her own, not letting him finish. When she pulled away, she looked him in the eyes, ran her hand down his cheek. "No more apologies, Danny. We're in this together—remember our vows? 'For better or worse,' and maybe this is the worse, but we'll get through it—together. Tell me what you need."

* * *

He let out a shaky breath. "I can't do this alone," he whispered.

"No one's asking you to, Danny. Did the Corps teach you to fight alone, solo, without a team, without backup?"

He shook his head, unsure where she was going.

"Did the NYPD send you out on the streets alone? Or did you have a partner?"

"Partner," he whispered. Damn, had anyone talked to Baez? Did she know how f-d in the head he was?

"Then why do you think you have to fight this alone?"

"Because it's not fair to any of you to have to sit here and watch while I drown!" he burst out, tears stinging his eyes. "I don't want to pull you under with me!"

She took his face in her hands. "Danny, I'm safe on dry land. And I will throw you a life-jacket and a rope to pull you to shore. And I promise you, you won't pull me under with you."

 _Because you're stronger than me_ , he thought, and looked away.

But she gently turned his face back to face her, kissed him. "It's not because I'm stronger than you, it's because I can see the goodness and the beauty and the future and the joy that are still ahead of you and that you will find your way back to. Right now, you're having a hard time seeing all this…but it's there, I promise. But you have to keep fighting the waves, babe."

He swallowed hard. "I…I need you to not leave me alone, no matter how much I curse and complain. I don't trust myself right now."

"I can do that, Danny."

She stood up, pulled him to his feet. "It's late. Let's go to bed."

He nodded, and hoped it wouldn't be another sleepless night…


	36. Chapter 36

Alex Dawson was reading the latest _Journal of Counseling Psychology_ when his phone rang.

He glanced at his watch.

At 10:30 p.m. on a Sunday, it had to be a patient in crisis.

He closed the journal. "Hello."

"Dr. Dawson, this is Frank Reagan. I'm sorry to call you so late."

"Don't worry about it, Frank, I'm a night owl. And an early bird." He chuckled to himself at the old joke, then sobered. "What's wrong?" he asked, standing up from his armchair to take a turn around his living room.

"I don't know how to help Danny. I've tried talking to him, but I don't think it's helping."

"What have you told him in the past couple of days?"

"That it was okay to lean on us, that life would get better, that healing would take time." He sighed. "And then I played a game of darts with him because he was tired of talking. I can't lose another son…and Danny's slipping away."

Alex went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. "I'm happy to give you some tips this once, but because of confidentiality, I cannot see you therapeutically. Do you have someone you could talk to?"

He drained the glass as Frank said, slowly, "If you mean professionally…I have seen someone a couple of times before, but I'm not very fond of the field of psychology; I don't have the patience for therapy. I just wanted some advice this once."

Alex nodded. Reagan stubbornness at work. At least Danny had overcome that enough to seek him out. Otherwise…he shuddered at the thought of where Danny would be.

"It might be something to consider, Frank. I can give you the names of some of my colleagues. But if you're not ready for a therapist—is there a close friend you could talk to—and I mean a _friend_ , not one of your other children?"

"Some friends, of a sort, at work."

"Good. Are you taking care of yourself, Frank?"

The silence on the other end of the line answered that question.

Alex wandered back into the living room. "Are you eating well-balanced meals, sleeping, exercising, de-stressing?"

"I'm eating. I haven't been sleeping, because...whenever something's up with one of my kids, I get a touch of insomnia. I did go for a walk with my father early this morning. And it's hard to not be stressed when my suicidal son is in the house; I'm on edge constantly." He cleared his throat. "I didn't mean…"

"You're worried he's going to try to commit suicide again," Alex observed.

"Yes, I am," Frank said quietly.

Alex sighed. "I wish I could tell you that you didn't need to worry about that, but I won't lie to you. Not 72 hours after I talked him down from a roof. It is something you need to be aware of, and I'm glad you are aware of it—it will help you and the rest of your family to keep him safe. You can't help Danny if you don't take care of yourself, though, so do reach out to those friends."

He stopped in front of a bookcase, straightened a few books. "I know you'd mentioned taking some time off work these next two weeks?"

There was a murmur of voices in the background; they retreated, and Frank said, "Yes. I have to go in tomorrow for most of the day; but I'm trying to adjust my schedule so I can get home earlier, spend some time with Danny." He paused. "I'd give anything if I could take this from him, but I can't. How do I help him, Dr. Dawson?"

Alex returned to his chair. "The best thing you can do for Danny is listen when he wants to talk—and that's _when_ he wants to talk; don't push him. Listen to his pain. Don't offer advice, don't tell him it'll get better, don't tell him it's okay, and do _not_ tell him you know what he's going through. Dismissing his pain like that…will break his trust. I'm glad he asked you to play darts with him; try to spend time with him doing other things he enjoys."

"Thank you, Dr. Dawson. I should let you go. Good night. And…thank you for saving my boy's life."

He hung up, and Alex smiled to himself. Danny was beyond lucky to have such a supportive family.

* * *

He was just drifting off when his phone rang. _Not again_ , he thought. "Hello?"

"Doc, it's Linda Reagan. I'm sorry to call you so late, but I had to wait till Danny was asleep. I didn't leave him alone, though; I'm sitting on the floor of our bathroom, so I can still see him."

That explained why she was whispering.

Linda sighed. "I guess he told you about his old chaplain. But the rest of the day…his emotions are all over the place, and he's in pain, and…he was so angry earlier he told me to leave because he was afraid he would hurt me. How do I help him?"

Alex sighed. Such a similar question to Frank's, and yet… "Listen to him—to his pain, to what he's not saying. Don't leave, even when he tries to push you away. Keep telling him that you love him, no matter what. Don't give him platitudes—don't tell him it's okay, don't tell him you know what he's going through."

He sighed, pinched the bridge o fhis nose. "If Danny agrees, I'd be willing to see both of you for some couples' sessions, but not yet. I think he still needs some one-on-one sessions until this immediate crisis has passed."

"Crisis?" Linda asked. "Do you still think he might…?"

She trailed off, and Alex nodded. "It's a possibility, especially after one suicide attempt. He might try something again—and you need to know that, need to be aware of that."

There was a stifled sob, and then Linda said, "Thanks, Doc. I should go. He's getting restless, and I want to wake him before he has a full-blown nightmare. Thanks."

She hung up, and Alex sat up. Why couldn't they have called at the same time? After two conversations about his favorite patient, he wasn't going to sleep for a while.

He padded into the kitchen to make himself some hot chocolate. Guess he had time to finish reading that article after all.


	37. Chapter 37

After a couple of restless hours…courtesy of a nightmare of the roof 72 hours earlier…he'd actually slept.

He poked at the scrambled eggs. It wasn't that he wasn't hungry; he just didn't see the point of eating.

He took a sip of coffee as Linda put her plate in the dishwasher. She walked over to him, rubbed his shoulders. "I just saw Doc's car pull up. I'll be upstairs doing laundry, okay?"

He nodded.

He stood up, kissed her, and put his almost-full plate in the sink. He'd scrape it into the garbage later.

She went upstairs just as there was a knock on the kitchen door. He opened it. "Hey, Doc."

"Hey, Danny. How are you?"

He shrugged, took a turn around the kitchen. "How the hell do you think I'm doing, Doc? I hate this! I'm hurting my family, I'm scaring myself, and I'm really sick and tired of feeling like this!"

"Okay, sit down and tell me about it," Doc said calmly.

He stopped pacing, turned to face the younger man. "You're not going to leave, tell me you can't work with me?"

Doc shook his head as he sat down at the kitchen table. "Nope. Actually, I'm glad to see you're angry."

He frowned, sat down heavily. "No one's ever glad to see me angry, Doc; so why are you?"

"Depression has been defined as anger turned inwards. Letting the anger out, turning it away from yourself and towards the depression, will help you heal. What got under your skin, Danny?'

He couldn't have held the flood of words back, even if he wanted to—everyone was flooding him with advice, none of it helpful; he'd gone from being angry to wanting to cry in less than five minutes; he didn't want to hurt his family; Linda was too supportive and he didn't deserve her; and he didn't trust himself to be alone.

Doc let out a long breath. "I think we can channel this anger to fight your depression. I want you to take one of these thoughts and say it out loud—but instead of saying 'I should have died in Fallujah,' say 'You should have died in Fallujah.'"

"What-the-hell, Doc?"

"This exercise puts some distance between you and the depression, between your own point of view and the depressive point of view—because it's as if someone else is saying it to you. Try it."

He kicked the table leg. "Come on, Doc, don't go all Freudian on me!"

"I'm not. This is actually a relatively new technique. Give it a try, Danny."

He glared at Doc, then pushed his chair back and stood. He walked over to the kitchen sink, leaned on it. He had a vague idea this was going to cause…emotions, none of which he wanted to deal with…and he didn't want Doc to see his face.

He stared out the window, heaved a sigh. This was stupid and a waste of time, but if he didn't do it…Doc would give up on him. Linda would leave. And the waves would swallow him up.

And that thought scared him. "'You don't deserve to be alive,'" he whispered.

"Good job. Come sit down, please."

"I'm good over here, Doc."

"Danny, part of therapy is me being able to see your body language and your facial expressions. Right now, all I can see is your shoulders, which are telling me you're angry enough to hurt someone—or yourself. Please sit down."

He cursed, but turned and sat down.

"Thank you, Danny. Now, say it again, a little louder."

"Why, Doc?"

"You remember how I told you anger hides a lot of emotions? Well, so does depression. There are emotions hidden under that voice that you need to face."

"What do you mean 'that voice'? I'm not hearing things, dammit, Doc!"

"It's not an external voice, Danny. It's the negative thoughts, and the anger you feel toward yourself."

"I don't f-g deserve to be alive—that's a fact, Doc!"

"Is it?" Doc asked calmly.

He kicked a chair, sending it flying across the room. "'You don't deserve to be alive!'"

He hadn't meant to yell.

A wave of anger and sadness and all-out pain crashed over him. "Dammit!"

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "I…I can't…"

"Saying that out loud like that, made you feel things, didn't it? What are you feeling right now, Danny?"

"You know I hate that question!"

"I know, but you're doing good, Danny. Tell me how those words make you feel."

He shrugged.

He was surprised when Doc didn't push. Instead, the younger man asked him, "Is it possible, Danny, that…the little voice in your head telling you that, telling you that you don't deserve to be alive, is lying to you? That it's not really you thinking that, but something else?"

"Like what?"

"You tell me. When's the first time you thought to yourself that you should have died in Fallujah?"

That wasn't hard. He knew the exact time and place he'd first had that thought.

"When I found out…when Padre Donovan told me…that I was the only one of my unit who survived."

The hand on his shoulder made him jump. "Good job, Danny. You're doing good. We've been at this for a good while. Take a break, get a drink of water."

He stood up. He was trembling. He stumbled over to the sink, took a glass from the dish-rack, and filled it. He drank two glasses, then walked back to the table, sat down.

"If Linda, or Jamie, or Detective Baez, or anyone else, told you: 'I don't deserve to be alive'…what would you say to them?"

He shuddered. "That…that they were…that that little voice in their heads was lying to them."

"So, you wouldn't tell Linda or Jamie that they don't deserve to be alive?"

"No!" he said, sharply.

"Then why is it okay for you to tell yourself that you don't deserve to be alive?"

"Because…!" The pain was strangling him; he couldn't…

"Danny, that little voice in your head is lying to you. I want you to tell yourself what you would tell Linda or Jamie."

He shook his head. He wasn't sure what Doc meant. "'You deserve to be alive?'" he whispered, and flinched.

"You're on the right track, Danny, but I want you to say it in the first person: 'I deserve…'"

He shook his head. "I don't…I can't…"

"Five words, Danny. You can do this. Then I'll call it a day. Five words."

He leaned his elbows on the table, put his head in his hands. What would he say to Jonesy if the younger man were still alive and were contemplating eating his gun?

"I deserve…"

He let out a shaky breath. It was a bunch of hogwash. He couldn't do it.

"Take a breath, Danny. You're okay. What's keeping you from saying the words?"

He swallowed. Doc's stupid drowning analogy. "A ten-foot high wave is slamming into me."

"Okay. How does that wave make you feel?"

"Angry. And…scared."

"Why?"

"Because…if it's true for them…if they deserve to be alive and they're not…then why am I alive?"

"I don't know _why_ you're alive, but I know you _are_ alive, and you _deserve_ to be alive. Say these five words, and I'll stop bothering you."

The coffee was churning in his stomach.

His mouth was dry, and he swallowed thickly. He really needed that coffee to stay down. "I… deserve…to be…alive?"

It came out as a question, not a statement.

He gagged.

He stood up blindly, knocking his chair over, stumbled toward the sink. He heaved, bringing up the little breakfast he'd eaten. Dammit!

A firm hand was on his shoulder. "Breathe, Danny."

"Why…?"

"Physical reaction to emotional tension. It's normal."

Great. Just peachy.

Tears were stinging his eyes. He blinked, but seeing the mess he'd made in the kitchen sink, on top of his uneaten breakfast that he'd never scraped into the garbage can, just made him gag again.

He closed his eyes as his body continued to try to turn itself inside out.

"You finished?" Doc asked after what felt like hours.

He nodded.

Doc pressed a glass of water into his hand.

He rinsed, spat, still keeping his eyes closed.

Doc turned him away from the sink, led him to the table. "Come sit down."

"Are we done?" He opened his eyes, blinked. The light seemed brighter, harsher, than normal. His eyes stung.

"We have a couple more steps to go through, but I'll let you stop here and we'll come back to them tomorrow. You did good, Danny." Doc took a sip from the thermos he'd brought with him. "Where's Linda?"

"Upstairs."

"I don't want you to be alone right now, Danny. Will you go upstairs and get her when I leave?"

He nodded.

"I can let myself out," Doc said.

* * *

He felt like he'd been run over by Jamie's patrol car—twice.

He stood up, cleaned out the sink.

Then he walked to the stairs. Each step felt like an entire flight, but finally, finally, he was at the top.

He could hear Linda moving around in the laundry room. He wanted to call out to her, tell her he needed her, but that required energy, and he had none.

So he walked into their room, turned down the covers, and without taking off his shoes, crawled under them.

Maybe he would fall asleep and just not wake up.

He pulled the covers more tightly around himself.

He was shaking. He wasn't cold; he wasn't crying. He was in shock—he'd felt it before—and there was nothing he could do for it. Well, a stiff shot of whiskey would help, but his dad's whiskey was downstairs.

So he lay there and shook, and cursed his weakness.

Linda walked into the room, turned on the light. He shuddered under the covers. He didn't want her to see him like this.

"Danny! What's wrong?" She rushed over to him, sat on the edge of the bed.

He wanted to tell her it was okay, he was just tired after his session. But he wasn't okay, and it was so much more than just being tired after the session with Doc.

He shook his head.

Everything was wrong.

Nothing was wrong.

He was wrong.

She ran her hand through his hair, kissed him, then stood up.

She walked back to the door, closed it and locked it.

Then she came back to the bed and crawled under the covers next to him.

He tensed, expecting her to berate him for going to bed in the middle of the day.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around him, and held him.

He had no tears left to cry. Even if he had, he wouldn't have known what he was crying about. All that was left was pain—pain like he had never felt before. So he lay there and shook in her arms.

"I'm here, Danny. You're safe. I love you."

She whispered the words over and over again.

She was here, he wasn't alone.

He lay there, listening to her heartbeat and her quiet words, and the regular bonging of his dad's grandfather clock.

Doc had left at 11.

The clock had just struck 1 when he finally found his voice. Quietly, hesitantly, he told her about Doc's blasted new-fangled therapy session.

"One of these days, you'll be able to believe that, Danny—to believe that you deserve to be alive. And until you can, I'll believe it for you, and Doc will, and your dad will. So lean on us when you can't stand."

She kissed him, and he fell asleep clinging to her.


	38. Chapter 38

When Frank walked in the house Monday night after a long day of meetings and putting out fires between the mayor and his department, his dad and his daughter-in-law were bustling about the kitchen making dinner.

Danny was sitting at the kitchen table, holding a bottle of ginger ale. He looked…broken.

"Hey, Pops. Danny, Linda."

"Hey, Dad," Danny whispered. "Doc said you called him?"

O boy.

On one hand, he should have told Danny earlier. Except Danny had been asleep the night before, and still asleep when Frank left for work at 0630.

On the other hand, he had hoped to put this conversation off a bit longer, give himself time to collect his thoughts.

That wasn't going to happen now.

He gestured with his head into the living room. "Let's let Pops and Linda finish dinner." He shrugged his coat off and walked into the living room, sat down.

After a couple minutes, Danny walked in, sat down on the couch, facing him. He put his ginger ale on the table, leaned his chin in his hands. He looked like he was facing his own executioner.

Frank looked at his son. "Dr. Dawson made it very clear from the start of our conversation that he would not violate confidentiality. The only reason I called him was to get his advice on how to help you—what to say and what not to say. That's all we talked about. I promise you." His son nodded, and Frank said gently, "How you doing?"

Danny shrugged. "Rough session with Doc." He looked at the floor. "After Doc left, I…went to bed and hoped I would fall asleep and not wake up."

Frank flinched. "I'm sorry, son." He took a sip of his ginger ale. "Have you eaten today?"

Danny shook his head. "Breakfast didn't stay down—thanks to Doc making me talk—and I slept through lunch."

"What's Pops cooking?"

"Soup and bread."

"Good, that'll warm the boys up when they come in from the snow."

Danny looked up at him. "It snowed today?"

"Yes, started about 11:30. They're having a good time. They'd like you to come see their… creation." He wasn't sure it could be called a snowman.

He stood up.

After a minute, Danny followed him outside.

"Dad!" Sean yelled, and threw a snowball at him. Danny didn't even try to duck. It hit him smack in the chest. Frank winced. That had to have hurt.

Jack and Sean plowed into him, and Danny brought his arms around them. "Hey, boys."

Frank shook his head. Danny wasn't present. Physically, yes. But mentally and emotionally…he was far, far away.

The boys ran off again.

Danny looked the "snowman" up and down, shrugged, adjusted one of its arms.

Frank put a hand on his shoulder. "Make a snowball, throw it at 'em. Make an effort, Dan. For their sakes."

Danny shook his head, turned, and went back inside.

Jack came up to him. "Is Dad gonna be okay, Grandpa? He looks so sad."

Frank forced himself to smile at his grandson. "Yeah, yeah, Jack, of course your dad's gonna be okay. He just…you know he doesn't like the cold. Get your brother and come inside, dinner's almost ready."

The boys beat him to the house.

His dad was just taking the bread out of the oven. "How you doing, Pops?"

"Fine, Francis. Could you call the boys, tell them to set the table?"

"Sure. Where's Danny?"

His dad turned to him, shook his head sadly. "Came in, went upstairs without a word. Linda went after him. He looks like crap. He needs a good meal. And a few other things."

"Go easy on him, Pops. It hasn't even been four days. This didn't happen overnight; he's not going to heal overnight, either."

His dad nodded.

During dinner, Jack and Sean kept up a non-stop chatter about the snow and whether school would be cancelled if it kept snowing.

Danny tore his bread into shreds.

After dinner, the boys went upstairs to finish their homework. "Come on, Danny, join an old man in a game of chess," Henry said.

"I'm tired, Gramps. I think I'm just going to go to bed."

"Daniel, you spent practically the whole day in bed. That's not going to help you fight the depression."

"Henry…" Linda said quietly.

"Dammit, Gramps!" Danny shouted. "Do you think I want to feel like this? Because I don't! Four days ago, I was one step away from ending it all! I…I just wanna be happy again!"

"Then stop wallowing in self-pity and come play a game of chess with me, Daniel."

Danny stood up, trembling with rage. "'Self-pity'? Do you think I want to feel like this? Because I sure as hell don't! Go to hell, Gramps!"

He shoved his chair back, knocking it over, and stalked out of the room.

Frank started to follow him, but his dad held up his hand. "No, Francis, this is my mess, let me clean it up."

* * *

Henry found his grandson in the backyard, throwing snowballs at a tree with the accuracy of a sharp-shooter. He'd gone outside without his hat, coat, or gloves.

"Danny."

"Leave me alone, Gramps."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Danny."

Danny turned to face him. "'For what it's worth,' Gramps? Dammitall, a game of chess isn't going to make me all better!"

"No, but maybe it'll distract you from the pain for a few minutes!"

"Leave me alone, Gramps."

"I'm sorry," Henry said again, and headed back inside.

Linda was standing in the kitchen, her hands on her hips. "Where the hell did you get the idea that Danny's wallowing in self-pity? He's in pain, Pops! He's in so much pain he almost took his own life!"

She stormed out of the house—presumably to Danny's side—and Henry went into the living room, poured himself a shot of whiskey, and sat down in his chair. "You know my thoughts on the field of psychology, Francis; but why did no one ever teach us in the Corps, what to say to a family member in Danny's shoes? I thought a game of chess would help him, draw him out a bit. He only got up thirty minutes before his shrink came, and he went back to bed right after the doctor left. I didn't think he would come down for dinner."

His son took a sip of his drink. "Pops…you need to tread very lightly with Danny. Like Linda said the other day, he's fragile. Encourage him to get out of himself a bit, yes; but don't nag him—you saw what that'll do."

"How do I fix this?" Henry asked. It felt strange to be asking his son for advice.

Francis shook his head. "I don't know, Pops."

Henry nodded, and turned to his crossword puzzle.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Danny walked in, holding Linda's hand. "If you make it a short game, I'll play chess with you, Gramps."

Henry resisted the urge to cheer. "Okay, but don't expect me to go easy on you, Danny."

The game was over in an hour; Danny lost. "Goodnight Dad, Pops," he said, and went upstairs with Linda.


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt.**

**If you're drowning, please reach out!**

**Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255.**

**You matter and your life is worth living!**

* * *

It had been eight days since he went up on the roof of Doc's office building.

He had been doing his homework and talking with Doc and taking his medication.

He had been trying to interact with his family.

Tonight, though, he was alone.

He was surprised they had let him be alone.

His dad was at an NYPD event that he hadn't been able to get out of, the boys were at a sleepover, Linda was at the theater with Erin—she'd asked him half a dozen times if he'd be fine, home alone with his grandfather—Jamie was on a night tour, and Nikki was at her dad's.

His grandfather was downstairs doing a crossword puzzle.

So technically he wasn't alone.

But he might as well have been.

Doc wasn't helping.

Stupid group therapy—he'd gone twice—wasn't helping.

He'd dropped his phone and killed it, so he couldn't call Doc, or Padre.

He couldn't take the pain anymore.

He had bolted after dinner with Gramps—the old man had said something, and Danny had had a flashback.

Pathetic—having a flashback in front of his 80-something-year-old Marine Corps veteran grandfather.

He couldn't breathe.

* * *

He could hear Gramps griping that they were out of milk.

Linda had accidentally left the car keys.

He picked them up, walked downstairs, sauntered into the kitchen. "I can pick some milk up, Gramps."

"You sure you should be driving, Danny?"

He shrugged. "I'm tired of being cooped up inside; fresh air might help my head."

No one had told him he couldn't drive…

His grandfather reached for his wallet.

"I've got it, Gramps."

* * *

He got back in the car after buying the milk.

He could go home.

Or he could just end it all.

The pain.

The nightmares.

The memories.

The flashbacks.

He turned the car on, backed out.

He turned onto the road that led to the pier.

This time of night—10 p.m. on a Friday in late February—it was deserted.

He pressed harder on the gas pedal.

He pointed the car toward the concrete barrier. "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee," he prayed.

Then he floored the gas pedal.

Tires squealed and metal screeched and glass shattered.

Everything went black.

* * *

Frank was counting down the seconds until he could escape the gala when Baker came towards him. "I hate seeing that look on your face, Baker."

"Detective Reagan was involved in a car crash."

Danny wasn't supposed to be driving; he was supposed to be home, safe, with Pops. "Likely?"

She shook her head. "I'm…not sure, Sir."

He followed her, Jim on their heels. "Details?"

"A couple of teenagers making out near the pier saw a car slam into a concrete barrier. They called a bus. EMT's took him to St. Victor's."

"Has someone notified Linda?"

"No."

"Take me home. I need to tell my father, then go pick up Linda and Erin."

* * *

"What happened?" Linda asked, over and over again. "We were gone for three hours, he was supposed to be safe."

Henry shook his head. "It's my fault. I was grumbling about not having milk. Danny offered to go pick it up, and I let him go. I shouldn't have let him leave—or I should have gone with him. I thought he was doing better."

"Blaming yourselves won't help you or Danny," Alex Dawson said quietly, and rose as the ER doctor came towards them. "Dr. Gillespie, how is he?"

The doctor sighed. "He's still unconscious, but we've ruled out any brain bleeds. He has a Grade III concussion, a broken left arm, and two broken ribs."

"Can I see him?" Linda asked.

"Yes, but I want you to know that, for his own safety, his leg has been handcuffed to the bed."

She flinched. "Why?"

"I read his file. This was a suicide attempt. As soon as he's stable, we're moving him to the psych ward."

"For how long?" Frank asked.

"I can't say. A minimum of 72 hours, no visitors."

* * *

Beeping.

Machines.

Hospital.

He was alive.

Dammit.

Unless this was hell.

He opened his eyes.

Hospital.

Definitely not hell.

He was still alive.

Dammit all to hell.

He'd failed—again.

Couldn't save the men in his unit.

Couldn't save John Russell.

Couldn't even manage to crash his car properly in order to kill himself.

Jackhammers were drilling holes in his head.

Concussion.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness and nausea.

Couldn't move his left arm—it was broken.

He tried to breathe.

Nope.

Broken ribs.

He heard a paper rustle, and opened his eyes very slowly.

This time, the room didn't whirl.

A large man in a business suit sat in a chair, holding a yellow legal pad and a pen. _Shrink_ , Danny thought, and groaned.

"Who…who the hell are you?" he rasped. Damn, his mouth was dry.

"I'm Dr. Trautman, hospital psychologist. How are you feeling, Danny?"

He tried to roll over, but couldn't. "Go to hell."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You're under 1:1 patient supervision. And I'd like you to tell me what happened."

"Let me sleep."

"You've _been_ sleeping. You were unconscious for about six hours. We've been waking you up every two hours for neuro checks."

Likely story. He didn't remember that.

He looked around.

Nothing in the room he could throw at the doctor.

No remote.

No water jug.

No box of tissues.

O wait. His IV pole was on his right side.

"I'm not letting you inside my head! You'll lock me up!"

"Detective Reagan…"

"Get the hell out of here! And get someone to find Alex Dawson! I'm not talking to anybody but him!"

He held his breath, swept his right arm out. The IV pole swayed, headed for the doctor.

Trautman bolted out of the chair just before it hit him.

"Detective Reagan, you need to calm down!"

Monitors were beeping,

Someone came into the room.

They put something in his IV.

"Go figure out who the hell Alex Dawson is. But tell him to be careful. We better restrain…"

Everything went black—for the second time.


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N: This chapter begins about half an hour after the previous chapter begins. For those keeping track, roughly 10:30 p.m., Friday, February 21, 2003.**

**Maybe it's not a good idea to bring the boys to the hospital at 10:30 p.m. But, in the show, they're there when various family members are in the hospital. And I'd think Linda would want them there in case Danny takes a turn for the worse. So they'll be there**.

* * *

"Frank, what's wrong?" Linda asked in a panic when her father-in-law sat down next to her and Erin at the theater.

"I need you to come with me, now," he said.

She started to sob, but followed him out of the theater.

He turned to her and Erin. "Danny's in the ER."

"What happened?"

"He's 'not likely,' Linda, but it's not good."

She grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. "What happened? Just tell me already!"

Frank gently pulled away, led her and Erin to the car.

They got in the car.

Henry had his head in his hands. He looked up as they climbed in. "I was complaining about being out of milk. Danny offered to pick it up for me. Thirty minutes later, Francis walks in the door. Danny got the milk—and then crashed the car into a concrete barrier at the pier. I shouldn't have let him go—or I should have gone with him. He wouldn't have crashed the car if I had been in it. I shouldn't have let him out of my sight. I'm sorry, Linda." A sob broke the old man's voice.

"But he's alive?"

"Yes," Frank said. "So far, all we know is that he's unconscious, probably has a concussion, and his arm's broken."

"I have to get the boys," Linda sobbed.

Frank put his hand on her arm. "They're probably asleep. They're safe at the Keenan's; we'll get them tomorrow. Let's head to the hospital."

"Doc. Someone needs to call Doc, he needs to know," Linda said.

* * *

Frank pulled out his cell-phone, found the number. He'd called this number way too frequently of late.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Dawson, this is Frank Reagan. Can you meet me at St. Victor's ER?"

"I'm on my way. What happened?"

"Danny…went out to get milk for my father. He was in a car crash. It looks…intentional."

"I'm on my way. Do you need me to pick up anything for you—clothes, food—or come with you to notify any of your children?"

"Thank you, but no. My father, Linda, and Erin are with me. Jamie's on his way. Danny's boys are at a sleepover, we're not going to tell them till tomorrow."

"Do not keep this from them," Dr. Dawson said firmly. "Go to their friend's house, wake them up, tell them. If they want to wait in the waiting room with all of you—let them. If they want to stay at their friend's house—let them. This is their father; they already know he's struggling. You cannot keep this from them."

Frank told his detail to go lights and sirens until they were a couple blocks away from the Keenan's house. Then they drove up quietly.

* * *

Linda went to the door.

JoAnne Keenan answered it. "Linda, what's wrong?"

"I need to talk to the boys. Something happened…Danny…"

She started to cry again.

JoAnne wrapped her in a hug. "I'll get them. Wipe your eyes; you don't want the boys to see you like this."

Linda took a few shaky breaths, trying to calm down.

Then the boys ran down the stairs and into her arms. "Mom! What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

"It's Dad. Daddy's in the hospital."

"What happened?" Sean asked.

"Did he try to kill himself again?" Jack sobbed.

"I…I don't know yet. We need to go." She shot a grateful look at JoAnne, and led them to the car.

* * *

Alex called himself every name in the book as he dressed and got in his car. Why hadn't he seen it? He had known it was a possibility; he had warned the Reagans not to leave Danny alone—and he meant that strictly.

And now Danny was in the ER.

He pulled out his phone, dialed a number Danny had given him…was it only two days ago?

"Hello?" a groggy voice said.

"Father Donovan, this is Alex Dawson, Danny Reagan's…therapist. I thought you would want to know that…Danny's in the ER, after what appears to be an intentional car crash. Do you want me to pick you up? I think it would be good for Danny's family to see you."

"Yes, please. I'm staying at St. Andrew's." He rattled off the address.

"I'll see you in twenty minutes," Alex said.

* * *

It was close to midnight by the time they gathered in the waiting room.

The boys, faces streaked with tears, were asleep in Henry's arms.

Erin was crying quietly, Jamie's arm around her.

Frank was pacing. "Thanks for coming, Doc, Padre" he whispered.

Linda looked up. "What happened?" she sobbed.

Alex Dawson sat down next to her, leaned his chin in his hands. "I don't know, Linda," he said quietly. "He's still unconscious, so I can't talk to him. I was aware of the possibility of him making another attempt; I wasn't expecting it like this, though."

"What's going to happen now?" Frank asked.

"Once he's physically stable, they'll move him to the psych ward—and hold him for a minimum of 72 hours. They're calling this a suicide attempt—which I think it was. They'll probably decide to change his medication—which will extend his stay, until they find something that seems to work."

He stood up, took a turn around the room.

He paced, and prayed to a God to Whom he hadn't prayed in years, that Danny would wake up, that he would come through.

* * *

It was about 4:30 a.m. when Dr. Gillespie came in the room for the third…fourth?...time. "He's waking up. Linda, come with me?"

Danny had been unconscious for almost six hours.

Time dragged by, second…after second…after second.

It was 6:30 when Alex couldn't stand the tension in the room any longer. He tapped Jamie on the shoulder. "Want to go down to the cafeteria with me, grab some coffee and breakfast for everyone?"

Jamie nodded. "Yeah, sure."

Erin went with them. They came back with six coffees, hot cocoa for the kids and for Padre. Then they went back to the cafeteria to get breakfast.

Then they returned to the waiting room.

All they could do was wait.


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: Suspension of disbelief is necessary for this chapter. Danny remembers what happened. I know, I know… Sorry!**

* * *

He had drowned.

Not just half-drowned.

Totally drowned.

He couldn't breathe.

Pain and pressure and water suffocating him.

Why did drowning sound like a hospital?

Machines were beeping.

Something was tickling his nose.

He brought his arm up.

Oxygen thingey.

Someone was trying to make sure he could breathe—even though he was underwater.

Waste of time.

He took it off.

"Put it back on, Danny," said a familiar voice.

The voice came from far away.

The voice was above water, alive, breathing.

He was underwater, dead, drowned.

He didn't know why people kept talking, like he could hear them.

He didn't know why he answered, like they could hear him.

But somehow he could.

" _Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck!...Answer me, O Lord…I am afflicted and in pain!_ " (Psalm 69:1, 16, 29)—that was Padre Donovan.

" _Do not go gentle into that good night_ " (Dylan Thomas)—that was Doc.

" _Take my hand, Danny, I'm not gonna let you drown!"_ —Padre again.

"If you can hear me, squeeze my hand"—Doc.

He squeezed.

He frowned.

He had felt that.

It wasn't part of the underwater dream.

He opened his eyes slowly.

The room didn't whirl.

Bile rose in his throat.

He swallowed it.

Puking with broken ribs would hurt.

"Put the oxygen back on"—Doc.

He put the oxygen thingey back on.

He looked towards the voice.

Dr. Dawson sat next to him, reading the newspaper. "Doc?" he whispered.

"Hey. Can you tell me your name, the date, and where you are?"

"Drowned. Underwater. You're not real."

"I promise you, I am very real, Danny."

Doc stood up, put a hand on his arm.

The touch was familiar.

"Doc…why?"

"Where else would I be? Can you tell me your name and the date and where you are?"

"Danny Reagan. February…21st? 2014. St. Vic's. Not the ER. Where…?"

He tried to sit up, to look around the room, but gasped in pain. Alex put a hand on his good arm. "Easy, Danny, you've got a broken arm and broken ribs. You've been in and out for a while; it's actually Sunday, February 23, but that's okay. Welcome back."

Welcome back?

Where had he been?

Besides drowned.

He leaned back, squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was racing, thumping painfully against broken ribs. He couldn't breathe.

"Breathe, Danny. Nice and slow. They couldn't give you too much pain medication because of your concussion. Breathe with me, Danny. In through your nose…one, two, three, four…out through your mouth…one, two, three four, five. That's it, there you go."

He breathed…in and out, in and out, in and out…over and over again.

He'd done this before…breathing in and out. With Doc.

The pain eased.

He opened his eyes.

Doc smiled sadly at him. "Can you tell me what happened?"

He shook his head, gasped at the pain. When he could breathe again, he asked, "How long…?"

"About forty hours. It's about three p.m. Sunday, February 23. You were out like a light for six hours; they did a bunch of tests, worried you were bleeding into your brain. You tried to clobber the hospital psychologist yesterday, because evidently you only wanted to talk to me—do you remember that?"

"Didn't want to talk to him."

"You could've just asked them to call me, Danny."

"Didn't want to be locked up."

"Well, they ended up having to sedate you, which they really didn't want to do, because of your concussion. Tell me what happened, Danny."

He took a shuddering breath, winced. "Concussion, remember?"

"You remembered my name and had enough coordination to knock your IV pole over with your good arm. Plus, the doctors need to know if your memory's been affected. They're all afraid to come in here, so…you're stuck with me. Tell me what happened."

He closed his eyes. "Told Gramps I'd go pick up milk for him; he doesn't like driving after dark."

"After that?"

"Was I in a car crash?"

"Tell me what you think happened, Danny."

"What does it matter? I failed."

"What did you fail at?"

"Dammit, Doc, I was trying to kill myself! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I want you to tell me the truth, Danny."

He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling. "I got the milk. Then…I…realized…I could go home, or I could just…end it all. I drove to the pier, straight at the concrete barrier."

"What happened next, Danny?"

He gagged.

He couldn't even scream at the pain because that required oxygen.

Doc was raising the bed, shoving a basin under his chin.

He retched.

"Stay with me, Danny, the pain will ease. Don't you dare out on me, Detective Reagan!"

He heaved.

Bile burned his throat.

He spat it out.

He cursed at the jackhammers in his head and his ribs.

There was a voice.

"Hang in there, honey, we're giving you something for the nausea. Keep breathing for me."

Tugging on his IV line.

The nausea eased.

He swallowed thickly.

There was a cup at his lips. "It's just water. Rinse and spit."

He obeyed, closed his eyes to try to make the jackhammers stop.

Then he was lowered back down.

"What happened after you headed for the barrier, Danny?"

"Leave me alone, let me sleep."

"I can't do that, Danny." Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "It's okay. You can tell me. It'll help."

He reached out blindly.

Doc gripped his hand. "I'm here. You're not alone, Danny. Tell me what happened after you pointed the car towards the barrier."

"I knew I was going to crash and I didn't care. I…I wanted to die."

He froze, waiting for Doc to yell at him.

"I'm so sorry, Danny."

"I said a prayer. I heard the crash. Then everything went black."

A hand on his shoulder. "You did good, Danny. Rest now."

"How long…?"

"When you're stable neurologically and physically, they'll transfer you to the psych ward. Minimum 72 hours there."

That was too much time to be alone with his thoughts.

Might as well kill himself now.

He tried to push himself up, his heart pounding.

"Easy, Danny, you're not going to be alone. Father Donovan and I will be taking shifts with you."

"Linda?"

"Your family's in the waiting room. They can't see you until after the seventy-two hours—hospital policy. But they wanted me to tell you that they love you, Danny."

He flinched.

"If I have a concussion…why the hell can I remember what happened?"

" _That_ is a question for your neurologist, not your psychologist, Danny. Don't get us mixed up. Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Doc, I don't want to hurt anymore," he whispered.

"I know. We'll talk more later, when you're feeling better, but now I just want to ask you one thing: How do you feel, that you're alive instead of dead?"

He would've shaken his head, but that would have hurt like hell. So would shrugging his shoulders.

"I don't know. Confused."

"That's understandable."

Doc stood up.

He shuddered. "Don't leave me!"

"I'm going to let your family know that you woke up, and that you remember what happened. Father Donovan will stay with you."


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: The quote at the end is a reference to the Season 3, Episode 10, "Fathers and Sons": Erin says this to Danny, who says that it sounds like something their mother would say**.

* * *

Erin gave up on trying to pour the water.

Her hands were shaking too hard.

Less than 48 hours ago, her big brother—Iraqi War veteran, hard-@$$ detective, husband and father of two—had tried to kill himself.

She still couldn't believe it.

She glanced into the dining room, where Linda was setting the table.

Linda had been the one to insist that they needed to come home, sleep in their beds, go to Mass, and eat real food.

Linda came back in, put the butter knives away and got out the steak knives. "Thanks for getting the water," she whispered.

Erin nodded and tried again to pour it. This time she only spilled a little bit.

Her sister-in-law looked like crap—face ashen, eyes red-rimmed.

She reached for Linda's hand and set the knives down, then slipped her arm around her sister-in-law's shoulders. "How are you?" she asked quietly.

Linda shook her head. "I don't know. I know Danny's safe right now. He can't hurt himself. Doc is spending as much time with him as the hospital will let him—even just sitting there while he sleeps. But…" She trailed off.

Erin squeezed her shoulder. "He's gonna be okay. He has to be okay. I can't lose another brother—especially not at his own hand."

Linda nodded, swallowed hard. "Danny told me that he talked to Joe, when Sean was in that coma, asked him to pray for Sean. I think maybe we should do the same for Danny now."

Erin couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. She nodded and closed her eyes. _Joe, if you're in heaven and you can hear me…beg the Good Lord to save my brother from himself. I can't lose another brother!_

She swallowed hard. "What do the boys know?"

"They know that he crashed the car. Jack guessed that…that he'd tried to hurt himself. I'm taking both boys to Dr. Bell's tomorrow."

"Good. I was…going to call in to work, but since we can't see him…I'd go batty stuck at home all week."

Linda nodded. "I know. Me too. That's why the boys are going to school tomorrow and I'm going to work a shift. Otherwise I'll sit around the house and drink an entire bottle of wine."

"Same." She swallowed. "Have they…transferred him yet?"

Linda shook her head. "No. Probably tomorrow. He's still sleeping a lot, and confused, and Dr. Dawson is advocating that he needs to show a bit more physical healing before they move him. I'm going to take some of this food over later, for Dr. Dawson and for Padre Donovan. They're being so good to us."

* * *

Dinner was a subdued affair.

Henry led grace.

"I don't like family dinner when Dad's not here," Sean muttered.

"Well, hopefully he'll be home for family dinner next week," her dad said.

"Is Dad gonna be okay?" Jack asked.

"Well, his head's hurt and his arm and ribs are broken, but those will heal."

"No, I meant, like, him being really sad and trying to kill himself," the teen said bluntly.

Sean pushed his chair back and fled the table.

Linda followed him.

Her dad pushed his chair back from the table. "Your dad's getting help, Jack. He's safe. He's talking about the things that make him sad. He's getting different medication to help him. When he comes home, Aunt Erin and Uncle Jamie and your mom and I are all going to take time off work so we can hang out with him."

"If I hadn't done that stupid presentation and made Dad think about Iraq, none of this would have happened," Jack said.

"Jack, this is not your fault," Frank said firmly. "The case your dad was working on…made him remember things he didn't want to remember. And remembering those things…made him so sad that he didn't want to live anymore. This is not your fault."

Jack set his fork down. "May I be excused? I'm going to go find Mom and Sean."

"Take your plate to the kitchen," Henry said.

"Thanks," Jack muttered, grabbed his plate, and left.

Erin stared at her plate. Danny and Linda's neighbors had brought the food over, and it looked delicious, but it tasted like cardboard.

It had been six weeks since Danny had left family dinner to go find John and Tommy Russell.

Six weeks since her older brother's life had started to fall apart.

She looked around the table. "You really think Danny's going to pull through?"

"I believe that he will," her dad said. "And as your mother used to say, 'Sometimes believing something is more powerful than knowing it.'"


	43. Chapter 43

His head throbbed.

His left arm throbbed.

His ribs throbbed.

The nausea came and went.

They couldn't give him too many medications.

Because of his head.

Stupid head.

If his head weren't so hard, he would be dead.

He couldn't really sleep.

So he listened.

To Padre Donovan…who spent the nights with him…praying the Rosary, his Breviary, the Psalms.

To Doc reading poetry.

To machines beeping.

To patients in other rooms groaning and screaming.

He did what he was told to do: walked, did breathing exercises, rested his brain.

Not that there was much to think about when a few days ago he'd tried to kill himself.

Doc was there, but he was so confused, Doc kept saying they'd talk later.

He answered the questions that overly cheerful people asked over and over again: _What's your name, how old are you, where do you work, what's today's date, who's the President?_

Stupid questions.

He _knew_ the answers—most of the time.

Except for the date.

He'd lost a few days.

They told him.

But he still lost the days.

That was the concussion.

He couldn't seem to remember anything.

Except what he wanted to forget.

The crash.

He was in a wheelchair being moved…somewhere.

He couldn't breathe.

He was alone.

They were taking him to lock him up.

He'd never see his family again.

If he opened his eyes, he could see where he was going.

But the light still hurt his head.

So he kept his eyes closed, and tried to breathe.

A familiar voice: "Stop, please."

The wheelchair stopped moving.

The warm hand on his arm.

"Breathe, Danny. It's okay. Do you know who I am?"

"Doc?" he rasped.

"Got it in one. You're being transferred to the sixth floor."

The inpatient psychiatric ward.

He shuddered.

"It's okay, I'm here, you're not alone."

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

He tried to remember Linda's face and her voice and her touch.

He couldn't.

He needed her.

"I need…Linda."

"You'll see her when you go home—I promise. But for the next few days, you need to focus on getting better. I did talk to her this morning, she said to tell you she loves you more."

Tears started to roll down his face.

Doc's hand on his shoulder.

A handkerchief pressed into his hand.

He tried to curl into a ball and hide his face.

But the pain in his ribs took his breath away.

The wheelchair started moving again.

Up an elevator.

It stopped.

They transferred him like he was a baby.

Stupid doctors.

It wasn't his legs that were broken; it was his arm.

And his ribs.

And his head.

He held his breath at the stabbing pain that shot through him.

When it eased, he opened his eyes.

The room was dim.

Bare.

He shivered.

He didn't like being cold—too many memories of Fallujah.

"Do you want a blanket?"

He nodded.

When the blanket came it was warm.

He huddled under it.

It was scratchy.

But it was warm, so he didn't care.

The nurse came with his pills. "We changed your anti-depressant, gave you something for anxiety, and a mild pain medication for your arm and ribs."

Words. All words.

But the words at least explained why the last…two…three?…days felt so foggy.

He swallowed the pills, let her check to make sure he actually had swallowed them.

She left.

He leaned back on the mattress. No pillow for fear he'd suffocate himself with it. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday, February 25."

"How long will I…?"

"A minimum of 72 hours."

He nodded, took a shaky breath, let it out. "I need help, Doc."

"I know. If you want to tell me _why_ it happened, I'm listening, Danny."

He let out a shaky breath. "I was drowning, Doc. Nothing was helping. The pills weren't helping, stupid group therapy wasn't helping, even those exercises you were having me do…weren't helping. It's not like I planned it…I just went to get milk for Gramps. I got the milk. I was going to take the milk home. Then I got in the car to go home, and I just…"

Tears were stinging his eyes and he let them roll.

"I knew I could go home, or I could just end it all. So I headed for the pier."

"What were you trying to put an end to, Danny?"

"Dammit, Doc! Everything! The pain. The nightmares. The memories. The flashbacks."

"Why didn't you call me, or Padre, or one of your family members?"

"I dropped my phone and killed it."

"Do you still want to kill yourself?"

Why the hell was he crying?

"I want to…go home! I want to see Linda and my boys and get better and go back to work! I don't want to die, Doc!"

Where had that come from?

"I'm glad you don't want to die, Danny. But I need to know: Do you still want to kill yourself?" Doc asked again.

He shook his head. "N…no! I just want to stop hurting!" he sobbed.

"You will, Danny. There will be group therapy for the next couple of days, and one of the things they'll teach you is how to manage and deal with the emotions—without hurting yourself."

"They're not gonna teach me how to stop feeling hopeless," he sniffled.

"You were feeling hopeless on Friday?" Doc asked, and he nodded. "Can you tell me about that?"

He shivered under the blanket. "Like I'm going to have to live with this for the rest of my life—the nightmares and the flashbacks and the feeling like I don't deserve to be alive because my buddies aren't."

"There are some things we can work on to help you with the nightmares. Tell me about the most recent flashback you had."

He closed his eyes. "Friday night, Pops said something at dinner…"


	44. Chapter 44

He had hoped to take a nap after telling Doc about his flashback, but then Doc shifted in his chair, stretched, and said firmly, "You said that you don't want to die. Can you tell me about that, Danny?"

He stared at the cast on his arm. Sometime, before he'd woken up, Linda had written on it: _Love you more, L_.

He was dry as the Sahara—all the stupid pills.

"Can I have some water, please?"

"Just a sec."

Doc brought him a paper cup.

He drained it, looked pleadingly at Doc.

Two more cups of water later, he squashed the cup in his hand, leaned back on the mattress.

"You said that you don't want to die," Doc reminded him.

"I…I…I don't know where that came from," he muttered, suddenly embarrassed.

"It's a good thing, I'm glad to hear that, Danny. Tell me what's going through your head."

He unfolded the cup, began tearing it into tiny pieces. "Do I have to?" Damn, he sounded like a whiny kid.

"It'll help, Danny."

"I…can't…"

His breath was coming in harsh, wheezing gasps.

He kicked the railing on his bed.

Damn, his ribs hurt.

The warm hand on his arm. "Slow your breathing down, Danny. You're safe."

The bed creaked, and Doc was sitting next to him. "Breathe with me, Danny. Try to match my breathing, okay? In through your nose…one, two, three, four. Out through your mouth…one, two, three, four, five."

"Can't…breathe…"

"Yes, you can, Danny. Less talking, more breathing. Breathe with me, okay?"

He tried to match Doc's breathing.

The pain was making dark spots dance before his eyes.

Doc was talking about the snow outside and the game of chess he planned to play with Danny later.

Chess in the psych ward…that was just peachy.

Chess.

He always played chess with his grandfather.

Was his grandfather still alive?

Or was he blaming himself for what Danny had done?

"Pops?" he gasped.

"He's fine, Danny. Worried about you, but fine. I saw him yesterday. Talked with him for a while."

Doc kept talking…snow, and chess, and weather forecasts…calm, relaxed, _there_.

Finally, finally, he could breathe.

"Padre told me that the only way to heal…was to stop burying the memories. I…buried everything for nine years, and it exploded in my face. That's why I drove my car into the barrier: I wanted…the pain, and the memories, and the nightmares, and the flashbacks to stop! I can't face them!"

"Danny, you already are facing the memories. I know they're scary and they're overwhelming, but I'll help you learn to manage them, keep them from holding you underwater."

He took a shaky breath. "Water?"

Doc handed him another cup.

He drained it, crushed it in his hand, stared at the blanket.

"I don't wanna die, Doc! And I don't know why not, because four days ago, I wanted to end it all! I just want…to stop hurting! I wanna be able to sleep through the night for once! I haven't…not since John Russell…"

His voice broke, and he closed his eyes, seeing the look in John's eyes in those final seconds.

He shuddered.

"Good job, Danny. You're seeing that there's a difference between wanting to die, and wanting the pain to stop. _Hope_ is the difference—having hope that life will get better."

He opened his eyes, threw the cup toward the trashcan, scoffed. "Stop with the platitudes, Doc. If you're gonna sit there and tell me everything's gonna be fine, you can go the same way Trautman did. Except I promise not to throw anything at you."

"Danny, I want to try our old question-and-answer routine. You up for that?"

He shrugged.

Doc stood up, walked back to his chair, and sat down. "Would you say that you've hit the ocean floor—you've drowned, you can't go any lower than this?"

He nodded.

"But you're still alive, you're still breathing, right? Even though you're at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Yeah."

"You have two options, Danny. You can give up and let yourself drown—or you can reach out and grab the life jacket that your doctors, your family, and I, are holding out to you. Which is it gonna be, Danny?"

He didn't want to drown. He didn't know why, but he didn't want to drown.

"You're gonna think I was just trying to get attention Friday…" he whispered.

"No, I won't, Danny. Friday night, you were in more pain than you'd ever faced before in your life, more pain than you knew what to do with. That's why you crashed your car. You were _not_ just trying to get attention."

He swallowed thickly. His mouth was still dry. "I want…I want a life-jacket, Doc! I want to see my boys grow up. I don't want them to grow up without me because I was too weak to handle the memories and the pain! I don't want to be another veteran statistic, another cop statistic!"

He didn't know when he'd started crying. "I don't wanna die, Doc! I just wanna stop hurting!"

Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "I'll help you. The next time the pain becomes overwhelming, you have to reach out—okay, Danny? I understand why you were too ashamed to face your grandfather Friday and why you bolted—but you have to reach out. Telling someone 'I need help, I can't be alone right now'—takes incredible strength. I know you have that strength, because you reached out for help the night John Russell died."

He swiped at his eyes, picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "Padre told me…that one day I'd be able to think back on Fallujah without having a flashback, and…be grateful that I'm alive. I don't know…how that can happen! I can't talk about Fallujah anymore, Doc! Six f-g weeks of flashbacks and nightmares and telling you about Fallujah, and I've tried to kill myself three times! I can't…!"

"Okay, Danny, I won't make you tell me anything new about Fallujah. But we are going to revisit some of the memories you've already told me about, and figure out how to face them without freaking out."

He listened as Doc talked him through some process called CPT.

He was flagging, and he hoped Doc was about to end the session.

The younger man stood up. "I'll let you rest now, but I want you to think about this: You deserve to be alive for your own sake, Danny—and nothing that happened in Fallujah can change that."

He squeezed Danny's good shoulder. "I'd be happy to talk about this with you, but I think you should talk to Padre Donovan—it's more up his alley. He'll be in to sit with you in a minute."


	45. Chapter 45

Danny fell asleep before Padre came in. When he woke up the priest was sitting in the chair next to him, reading quietly.

He blinked, sat up, cursed under his breath. Dammit, he was hurting.

"Sorry about that, Padre. How long was I asleep?"

"It's okay, Dan. About two hours. This is the first time in four days you've gotten real sleep—they've been sedating you the last few nights."

He stared at the scratchy blanket. "You've spent the nights with me, haven't you?"

The priest shrugged. "I don't sleep much anyway; you know how it is, Dan."

He nodded. Yeah, he d-n sure knew how it was.

"What…what's today? What time is it?"

"It's Tuesday, February 25, a little after 1 p.m. I can't chat long, because you have group therapy at 2."

Great. Just what he wanted.

Padre pulled a bag out from under his chair. "Linda sent some of that roast chicken you love."

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

"Dan, Dr. Dawson told me you'd lost twenty-five pounds in the last six weeks. A home-cooked meal has to taste better than whatever it is they're feeding you here."

He shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. "I know you want to interrogate me, or chew me out, so get to it," he muttered.

"Dan, I'm not going to interrogate you; I just want to talk, if you're up to it."

He nodded. "Can…can you hear my confession?"

"Of course." Padre reached into his pocket, pulled out a thin purple stole. He kissed the cross on it, slipped it around his neck, made the Sign of the Cross.

Danny closed his eyes. His head was killing him. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's…I don't know, three weeks?…since my last confession. I…tried…twice…to kill myself." He sighed. "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"

Padre sighed. "No. You weren't in your right mind. Your PTSD, your depression, lessen your culpability."

He let out a shaky breath. "I know I've…committed other sins, but…I can't…remember them."

"It's okay, Dan. Are you sorry for all the other mortal sins you've committed since your last confession?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"You know you'll have to confess them when you remember them, at your next confession?" He nodded, and Padre continued, "For your penance, pray Psalm 69." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here's a copy. This is not part of your penance, but I think it would be good for you to memorize verses 1-3 and 13-18. Now make an Act of Contrition."

Danny swallowed hard. "O my God, I am heartily sorry…"

He choked on the words. Had he really meant them when he prayed them right before crashing his car into the barrier?

"For having offended Thee," Padre prompted.

Slowly, repeating the words after Padre, Danny finished the prayer.

He felt a weight come off his shoulders when Padre prayed the words of absolution.

He prayed Psalm 69.

He opened his mouth to ask Padre about what Dawson had said, but the older man handed over a still-warm Tupperware container.

This time he didn't argue.

Linda's roast chicken—which he normally loved—tasted like sawdust. But sawdust still tasted better than whatever they'd been feeding him the past few days. With the help of three cups of water, he managed to choke down all of the small portion Linda had sent, then set the container on the bedside table.

"How are you doing, Dan?"

"I…I don't know. Doc thinks I need to talk to you about feeling like I don't deserve to be alive."

"We'll get there, but can you tell me what happened Friday night?"

He shuddered, stared at his hands. "It was a normal, boring Friday. Had a session with Doc. Did a few things around the house for Pops and Dad. Talked with Linda. That evening, it was just me and Pops; we had dinner; he said something; I had a flashback. Went up to my room to calm down, and then I heard Pops grumbling about being out of milk. I thought it would do me good to get out of the house, so I went to buy it. Then I got back in the car, and I just…I thought to myself that I could go home, or…I could make the pain stop. So I drove…aimlessly. Wound up near the pier. Prayed the Act of Contrition right as I pointed the car toward the concrete barrier. Hypocritical, I know. Can't be forgiven for something you haven't already done."

"What do you remember next?"

He was shaking.

Padre stood up, slowly, put a hand on his arm. "You're safe, Dan. Take your time."

He nodded, numb. "I…I heard the crash. And then…the next thing I remember, was waking to find Trautman sitting there."

"The doctor you hit with the IV pole?"

He nodded. "I'm tired, Padre! I want to go home but I don't think I'm ready."

"Why not, Dan?"

He picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "I'm afraid…that everything will be too much and that I'll start wanting to end the pain, again."

"Has Dr. Dawson talked to you about what to do when that happens?" He shook his head, and Padre asked, "What do you think he would tell you to do?"

He shrugged, cursed at the pain in his ribs. "Call someone, not be alone."

"Those sound like very good things to do. Be sure to talk to him tomorrow."

His old chaplain shifted in the hard chair. "Dr. Dawson talked to me briefly. I could tell you all the theological reasons why you deserve to be alive, but I don't think they'd help. You need to believe it here"—he tapped his chest—"not just here"—he tapped his head.

"Not too big on faith, Padre. I mean, I do all the Catholic things—Mass, confession—but my faith slipped away sometime after I got home. I'm no better than Jimmy or Matt or Jonesy or the rest of them! I have a temper, I cross the line at work, I cuss, I'm not a good person, Padre! Why am I alive, and Jonesy and the rest of them aren't?"

Padre sighed. "I don't know, Dan. There's no easy answer to that question—plus, you'd clobber me if I just gave you an easy answer. But you are alive. And killing yourself…won't honor their memory, it won't bring them back. You deserve better than that."

"How do you know that?" he whispered. "Everyone keeps saying I deserve healing, I deserve happiness…what if I don't? What if …?"

Padre shook his head. "Dan, you're a good person. You do bad things, but we all do—that's fallen human nature. But that doesn't make you a bad person, it doesn't mean you're intrinsically evil."

He groaned. "Please, skip the million-dollar words, Padre."

"Your life is not yours, Dan; it's not something you own and can get rid of on a whim. Your life is a gift from God. He's the only one Who can decide when it's your time to die."

He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, picked all that up in those twelve years of Catholic school."

"Do you believe it?"

He kicked the bed railing. "Dammit, Padre, I already told Doc I don't wanna die!"

"Good. I'm glad. But you need to have a reason to live, and the basic, most fundamental reason is knowing that you deserve to be alive."

He flinched. "I thought you said you weren't gonna give me an easy answer, Padre. Sounds to me like that's all you're saying!"

"Dan…if you were meant to die in Fallujah, if that had been God's Will, then you would not be sitting here talking with me. You deserve to live; you deserve a future. I have gotten letters from Marines who have been exactly where you are, who have told me: 'Padre, I'm glad I didn't succeed in killing myself. I got help, I'm happy.' I want that for you, Dan."

"Forgive me, Padre, but go to hell!"

Padre locked eyes with him. "From what you told me about Corporal Russell, you two sound pretty similar: more than one tour, you both lost your best friends. He broke down because he couldn't handle his PTSD. The difference right now is: you're still alive, so there's hope. You tried to offer John Russell hope. You promised you'd help him. Why do you think your life has less value than Corporal Russell's? He thought his life would be better if he jumped. You knew that wasn't the answer. Why isn't that the case for you?"

He couldn't answer that.

Someone knocked on the door-jamb. "Danny, it's time for your group therapy."

He sighed, slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He caught his breath.

When his ribs had stopped throbbing, he stood up. "I'll catch ya later, Padre. Thanks."

As he walked out of the door, he muttered—loudly enough that Padre, and the orderly, and the doctor walking by, could hear him—"First day of group therapy. It's gonna be f-g awesome."


	46. Chapter 46

The days ran into each other.

He went to group therapy sessions and never said a word.

He talked with Doc and Padre.

Took his pills like a good patient.

Walked his laps.

Went to art therapy and glared at everyone because he couldn't participate—hello, broken left arm!

Showered—always with someone in the room.

Ate the bland meals with the dull spork.

Tried to sleep.

* * *

It was Monday.

That meant it had been ten days since he tried to end it all.

At 9 a.m., they told him to go to the conference room behind the nurse's station. At least he got to skip group therapy.

Doc was there, along with a doctor whom he vaguely remembered seeing. It wasn't the one he'd clobbered. "Danny, this is Dr. McLaughlin. He's been talking with me about your progress. How you holding up, Danny?"

He sat down, shrugged, winced.

When the stabbing pain in his ribs had eased, he said, "A little better, I guess."

McLaughlin launched into some script of ten million questions: his goals, his plans, did he still feel like hurting himself, how was the medication treating him.

He wanted to go home, to see his family, to put this behind him and get better and get back to the job. No, he didn't want to die anymore. The medication was peachy. He had thought they had taken him off the Zoloft but he had misunderstood (stupid concussion). Instead they'd increased it, and the dizziness and nausea were absolutely f-g peachy.

"We're going to make a safety plan for you, for when you go home," Doc said. "The plan is to discharge you this afternoon."

He couldn't breathe. "But I can't…I'm not…"

Doc locked eyes with him. "Danny, you have to return to your life at some point; you can't hide away in the safety of St. Victor's forever."

He kicked the table leg. "I'm not hiding, dammit!"

"I know. So tell me why you don't want to go home."

His breath caught.

He couldn't go home.

He couldn't face Linda, or his dad.

Doc whispered something to McLaughlin, and the older doctor left.

"I'm listening, Danny," Doc said quietly.

"I…I can't…they're all going to be mad at me. What am I going to do if it happens again?"

"I've had a lot of conversations with your family over the last few days. None of them is mad at you, Danny. They're worried about you. As for what you're going to do if you start feeling suicidal again, I'm going to help you make a safety plan."

* * *

What felt like hours later, he was back in his room, staring at a piece of paper.

He scoffed.

This piece of paper was supposed to be his lifeline the next time he was drowning.

First was a list of signs that he needed to be aware of: being alone, thinking about hurting himself, having a flashback or nightmare.

Second was a list of things he could do alone to distract himself from thoughts of suicide. He'd had a lot of trouble putting things down. He didn't think he trusted himself. But Doc had encouraged him to put three things down, and he finally wrote: "Exercise. Hit punching bag (when arm and ribs are healed). Read a book."

Third was a list of ways he could distract himself by reaching out to other people. Helping the boys with homework, playing chess with his grandfather, helping his dad or grandfather around the house. (Doc wanted him to keep staying at his dad's, and Danny was too tired to argue.)

Fourth was a list of family and friends he could reach out to: his dad and Linda.

Fifth was a list of professionals he could call: Doc and Padre.

Sixth and last thing on the list was the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255.

* * *

It was 4 p.m. when the doctor came back, with Doc. "Danny, you're going home," Doc said

Awkwardly—again, broken left arm!—he scribbled his name on ten million pieces of paper.

Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "What are you going to do if you start thinking about hurting yourself?"

He stared at his hands. The paper, folded neatly, was burning a hole in his pocket. "Do something to distract myself. If that doesn't work, spend time with the boys or Pops. If that doesn't work tell Linda or Dad."

"And if none of those things help?"

"Call you or Padre."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, Danny."

The two doctors left, and there was a knock on the door. "Hey, babe, can I come in?"

He turned as quickly as he could. "L…Linda?"

He stood up, buried his face in her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed.

"Shhh, Danny, I'm here, I love you."

Linda had brought in a bag of clothes. His zip-up USMC hoodie—with the string removed, of course.

She helped him put it on, leaving it loose over his left arm.

It was warm.

It was also ridiculously loose.

How the hell much weight had he lost?

He held Linda's hand tightly as they walked down corridors, rode down the elevator, walked out of the hospital and into the parking lot.

His head was still killing him.

"Who's at home…?"

"We're going back to your dad's for a while. Erin's there. The boys are in school; Jamie's going to take them to a movie, and then bring them over for dinner."

He shook his head. He couldn't see them.

"Your dad wanted to know if it was okay if we had family dinner tonight."

He froze, his hand on the door-handle. "I thought everyone would be mad at me," he whispered.

"Danny, we're worried about you, but we're not mad. We love you. We're sorry that you're hurting so bad, and we're glad you got help. Pops wants to talk to you when we got home."

He got in the car, buckled his seatbelt. "It's not his fault."

"I know, but he still wants to apologize."

He nodded. "Sure. Can we go home now?"

Linda kissed him and started the car.


	47. Chapter 47

Ten days since he crashed into the concrete barrier.

Six days since he was locked into the inpatient psychiatric ward at St. Victor's.

He shuddered when Linda parked the car in front of his dad's house. The last time he'd walked out of this house…it had been to buy milk. "Did Pops ever get his milk?"

"I…I don't know, Danny," Linda said, her voice thick with tears. "We weren't thinking about milk."

He slowly got out of the car, tugged on his sling. He hated it, but it did help support the cast. He winced, followed her inside.

His grandfather was sitting at the kitchen table.

He wanted to run.

Then the older man was standing in front of him, a gentle hand on his right arm. "Danny. O thank God."

"Careful of the left side, Gramps."

He had thought bruised ribs had hurt.

Broken ribs…were a whole new circle of hell.

His grandfather gave him a gentle hug. "Sit down before you fall down, Danny. You look like crap. Didn't they feed you in there?"

He sat down slowly. "Yeah. Doc and Padre snuck in food, too. Just…hard to eat in the environment."

The older man sat down. "Danny, I…I owe you an apology."

He shook his head, cursed when that made it pound more. Linda set a glass of water and a Tylenol next to him, kissed the top of his head. "I'll be upstairs."

He nodded.

When she had left, he took a sip of water. "No, Gramps, you don't. What happened…is not on you. Not by any stretch."

"Daniel, listen to me."

He picked the Tylenol up, dry-swallowed it.

"What I said Friday, Danny…I was out of line."

He closed his eyes, remembering that night.

* * *

_They had been eating dinner when his grandfather starting talking about one of his old cases. It had happened thirty years ago that night, and had been connected to a Marine with whom Henry had served in Korea. For the first time in his life that he could remember, Danny had heard snippets—uttered tersely, coldly—about the horrors his grandfather had seen._

_That had brought back his own memories of Fallujah, which he'd been trying to push into the background; and then the memory of John Russell's face; and he had had a flashback._

_He had jolted back to the present with his grandfather shaking him. He had seen the faintest flash of pity in the old man's eyes, and he had bolted._

_He had stood in his room, staring longingly at the punching bag but knowing it wouldn't even touch the pain._

_He had failed. He was supposed to serve and protect, and he had failed. Why was he even bothering anymore?_

_He had heard his grandfather grumbling about being out of milk._

* * *

He shuddered. "No, Gramps, you weren't. I…"

He took a sip of water. He did not want to remember the details of that flashback.

Flashback? Hell, it had been more a hallucination mixed in with a flashback.

That was why he had taken the first opportunity to get the hell out of the house.

"I shouldn't have let you leave the house, Danny," his grandfather interrupted.

"Gramps, that night…you couldn't have stopped me." He stood up shakily. "Are we done?"

"Not until you accept my apology."

"Gramps, you got nothing to apologize for. It wasn't your fault!"

"Maybe not, but I should have tried to keep you safe. And I didn't, and for that I am sorry."

His ribs were killing him.

He sat down again.

"Gramps….even if…you'd forced your way into the car with me—I mean, I wouldn't have crashed the car with you in it, but—short of handcuffing me to this table, you couldn't have done anything."

"I could have talked to you. I could have not raised your father to think that going to therapy is a weakness. I could have tried to get you help when you first came back from Fallujah. But I didn't do any of those things, and for that I am sorry, Danny."

He couldn't talk about Fallujah.

He couldn't handle any more words. "Apology accepted."

He stood up again, swayed, steadied himself on the table. This whole one-handed thing was getting old.

He dragged himself up the stairs.

He found Linda sitting on the bed folding laundry.

He sat down next to her, closed his eyes against the pain in his ribs.

She gently curled up against his right side. "I missed you."

He nodded. "I missed you too. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was so selfish."

A sob broke from her. "Danny…you weren't…"

He buried his face in her shoulder. "I don't want to die, Linda! I'm just so tired of being in pain!"

Feet thundered on the stairs, then the door about broke down from hands pounding on it. "Dad! Dad!"

He sat up, swiped at his face.

It was wet.

Linda looked at him, and he nodded. "Come on in, boys," she called.

The door burst open and Jack and Sean ran in.

"Careful of his left side," Linda said.

They skidded to a halt.

He held his right arm out. "Come here, come here, I'm not gonna break."

They crashed into him.

He caught his breath at the pain, held them as tightly as he could.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you boys so much."

"Then why'd you do it, Dad?" Jack asked through tears. "We were so scared!"

"I…I was scared," he admitted.

That at least was the truth.

"Nothing scares you!" Sean looked at him. "Why are you crying?"

"Because…because some things do scare me, Sean."

"Like what?"

He swallowed. "That's…for another time, Sean. When I'm feeling better, I'll tell both of you."

He kissed the tops of their heads. "Get outta here, go do your homework before dinner!"

They left, and he looked at Linda. "How much do they know?"

She shrugged. "The bare details. But I didn't lie to them."

"Dinner's ready!" he heard his grandfather yell.

So much for the boys doing their homework.

He stood, followed her downstairs.

He froze when he saw his entire family at the dinner table.

"We thought since you missed two Sunday dinners, we'd make up for it," his dad said.

Linda had mentioned it; but seeing their faces…the tears in Erin's eyes, the sober look on Jamie's face…he wanted to bolt.

He sat down slowly.

"Welcome home," Jamie said.

He couldn't look at him.

"We're not mad, Danny," Erin said firmly.

His dad led grace.

They'd made his favorites.

He served himself.

He started to take a bite, but all of a sudden the food looked revolting.

He pushed his plate away.

Linda slipped her arm around his waist.

He glanced at his dad. "How's the car?"

"Don't worry about it, Danny. All that matters is that you're okay."

He hit the table with his good hand. "D-t, Dad! Is it totalled, or not?"

Jack burst into tears, stood up, and fled.

Linda put a hand on his arm. "Danny!"

He took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"We're not the ones you need to apologize to, Danny," his dad said firmly. "The car was totalled. When you get your cast off, and you're cleared to drive, you will have a car. Don't worry about it."

He stood up slowly, pushed his chair back, went up the stairs.

He found Jack lying on his bed, sobbing.

He sat down, put his good hand on his boy's back. "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry."

"Why are you so mad, Dad? Are you mad you're not dead?"

He shook his head. "No, kiddo. I…I'm mad that…" He took a shaky breath. "I'm mad at…myself."

"Why?"

He shook his head. How to tell his 13-year-old that he was mad at himself for wanting to kill himself?

Jack sat up. "You lied! You promised me, the day after Grandpa took your gun! You promised me you wouldn't kill yourself!"

That had been just over a month ago. Not that he was counting. He didn't know why he could remember that, considering how much he'd struggled with the date for the last ten days.

He wanted to leave.

But he forced himself to look into his older boy's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I…wasn't thinking about you, or Sean, or your mom. I was tired of being in pain. But…I got help, that's why I've been in the hospital. And I'm trying really hard to fight this. Because I don't want to die, kiddo."

Not anymore.

Jack sniffled, and wrapped his arms around him.

Danny held his breath to keep from crying out at the pain.

Jack hugged him for a long minute.

When he pulled away, Danny stood up slowly. "Let's go finish dinner. I thought I saw a cake on the counter."

"Yeah. Aunt Erin made your favorite."

He swallowed down the nausea. "Think she'll let me have any even if I don't finish my dinner?"

Jack shook his head, and Danny went downstairs with his boy.


	48. Chapter 48

**A/N: Despite much research, I was unable to find out who determines pay in the NYPD. So, per suspension of disbelief and artistic license, I decided it would be the chief of detectives. If anyone knows the correct person/department, please let me know!**

**This chapter picks up where the last one ended, after dinner Monday**.

* * *

He wasn't surprised when his dad said "Danny and I are on dish duty tonight."

He didn't know how much help he'd be, but he didn't argue.

His dad got him situated at the kitchen table with the silverware and a towel. Drying silverware was something he could do one-handed.

He was glad his dad couldn't see his face.

He took a shaky breath, let it out, winced. "I've been home three hours, Dad and I've already wanted to bolt like 5 times."

"But you haven't, Danny. That's the important thing."

He stared at the table. "Am I fired?"

"No. You'll be on sick leave until your ribs and arm are fully healed, which will take a few months. If the doctors say you're fit, you can return to modified assignment—for a minimum of six months. After that, you'll have a physical fitness-for-duty exam and a psychological FFD, to see if you can return to full duty."

"So eight months minimum?"

"Yeah."

"How much of a pay cut are we talking?"

"Don't worry about that, Danny."

He slammed a spoon down on the table.

Electric bolts of pain shot through his ribs.

Black spots danced before his eyes.

He couldn't breathe.

Guess he needed to work on his temper.

Anger and broken ribs did not mix.

A firm hand was rubbing his back.

Finally he took a shaky breath.

"Dad…we have…bills to pay, the kids'…tuition; Linda's…working fewer hours because I'm…so… messed up! What. Is. The. Pay. Cut?"

"You'll be getting your regular pay rate during that entire time."

"What? You're letting me use my hook at 1PP? Come on, Dad, don't baby me!"

"I'm not. In matters of pay, I defer to my chief of detectives. It was his decision to give you your full pay while you're on modified. And you know as well as I do that you get full pay while on sick leave."

His shoulders slumped.

"What am I gonna do, stuck at home until the ribs heal?"

"Rest and heal—physically and emotionally." His dad's hand left his back, and he shuddered. "Now, the boys want to play a game with you; get out of here!"

He'd only dried three spoons.

* * *

After losing two games of cards to Sean, he went upstairs at 7 p.m.

Linda handed him the two pills of Zoloft, the narcotic.

He swallowed the Zoloft, ignored the other pill.

"Danny…" Linda was locking the small box where it seemed she was keeping his pills. It had a code to unlock it. He didn't know the code. He didn't want to know the code.

He shook his head. "I don't like it, Linda! It makes me loopy and nauseous. I'd rather deal with the pain than the side-effects."

"How about an ice pack for your ribs?"

He nodded, swallowed.

"I'll be back."

He grabbed her hand. "Don't leave, please!"

He didn't think he'd been alone—not when he was awake, anyway—in ten days.

She leaned down to kiss him. "Hey, I'll be right back, Danny. Five minutes tops."

He couldn't breathe.

Jack was talking to him. Where'd he come from?

"Dad! I'm doing this really cool science project for the science fair tomorrow, wanna hear about it?"

His son talked about batteries and lemon juice and he didn't-know-what, and he was still actually breathing when Linda came back with the ice pack.

"Finish your homework," Linda told the teen.

Danny hugged him with his good arm. "Thanks, kiddo. Love you. Sleep tight."

"Love you too, Dad. We're glad you're home."

He left, and Danny slowly lay down. He was way, way too tired to get in pajamas. He groaned as he tried to get the ice pack in the right place on his ribs. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Her finger was on his lips. "No apologies, Danny. No more. You're here, and you're alive. That's all that matters."

He nodded. "Dad said I'm on sick leave until everything heals. I'm going to go batty, Linda!"

"Danny, you need to rest. You're still recovering from the concussion. Do you honestly think you're up to sitting at a computer screen for 8 hours a day, watching video surveillance?"

He shook his head, winced. No, he didn't think so. Just the fluorescent lights in the house were hurting his eyes.

Linda got up, turned the overhead light off, then sat down next to him. She patted her lap, and he scooted over.

He sighed as she ran her fingers through his hair, rubbed his throbbing head.

"I'm scared, Linda. I'm scared of the thoughts and the memories that are going to be running around in my head if I'm stuck at home for months."

"I know. I'm here. You're not alone, Danny. What's the safety plan you and Doc came up with? If you start to feel overwhelmed, what do you do?"

He swallowed. "Read a book, do something with Dad or Pops or the boys, talk to you or Dad, call Doc or Padre. That's from like low-level freaking out to if I start…thinking about…"

He couldn't say the words.

"I'm tired, Linda. I'm so blasted tired. I can't…"

She leaned down, kissed him. "Shhh, Danny, just rest. I've got you."

He fell asleep, and dreamed of his boys and punching bags and his crying family and the men in his unit staring accusingly at him.


	49. Chapter 49

He hadn't been able to look Doc in the eye since the younger man sat down at the kitchen table—all of two minutes ago. This was their first session since Danny had gotten home from the hospital, and he was still waiting for Doc to explode at him.

"How are you feeling physically?"

"Like artillerymen are shooting rockets in my head, and someone's stabbing me every time I breathe." His arm felt the best—as long as he wore the sling and didn't move his arm.

"You were prescribed the narcotic for a reason, Danny. It won't help if you won't take it."

He sighed. "Linda talked to you, didn't she?"

"No, but if you were taking it you wouldn't be in this much pain. You're pale, you're sweating, you're breathing shallowly, and you're trying to shade your eyes from the light." Doc stood up, turned off the overhead light. "Were you taking it in the hospital?"

He nodded, removed his hand from his eyes. "Concussion, Doc; headache's part of the drill. Of course I was taking it, because they'd lock me up for non-compliance if I didn't. O wait. I was already locked up." He sighed. "I don't like narcotics."

Doc sat down again, locked eyes with him. "Punishing yourself won't bring back John Russell; it won't change what happened in Iraq."

"I know that. I…I've been thinking…"

He swallowed.

At some moment he couldn't put his finger on…sometime between the concrete barrier and his last conversation with Padre Donovan in the psychiatric ward yesterday morning…he'd actually started to believe what Doc had been telling him.

Maybe "believe" was too strong a word, but the thought that maybe it might possibly be true…didn't seem so outlandish anymore. Didn't make him want to yell and throw things.

The problem was, trying to get the words out of his mouth…he'd tried twice last night to whisper them to himself…was proving impossibly difficult.

It wasn't like he was saying it to make Doc happy.

Hell, Doc would probably yell at him, ask him why he hadn't realized this, admitted it, _before_ he crashed the car, tell him he had just been trying to get attention.

He took a drink of water.

"I have to stop…blaming myself for…John Russell and Michael Oates and…Jimmy Beale and Jonesy and…the rest of them. Because…their deaths… weren't…my fault."

He closed his eyes.

The room was quiet.

A chair scraped on the floor.

He flinched at the warm hand on his arm, opened his eyes.

Doc was looking at him. He didn't look angry. He was still the calm, sturdy lifeline Danny needed to keep his head above water. Because he might have come up from the bottom of the ocean but he was still treading water.

"Good job," Doc said quietly. "You're making progress, Danny."

"Progress?" he scoffed. "Eleven days ago I tried to kill myself. I should have _died_ in that car crash; hell, the car should have been totaled. But it's not and I'm not dead. How-the-hell have I made progress? I'm still…" He shook his head.

Doc sat down next to him, keeping his hand on Danny's arm. Why was that simple touch so damned comforting?

"A few days ago, you told me you didn't want to die. You just admitted that your friends' deaths weren't your fault—that's huge progress, Danny."

"Fine, whatever. Does that mean I'm all better and can go back to work?"

"What do you think?"

He shook his head, cursed. Now jackhammers had joined the rockets in his head.

He took a shaky breath, let it out. "I _know_ I'm not ready to be on the streets again, to have a gun in my hand."

"Why is that?"

"Because…I still don't know…why I'm alive. I'm facing two months stuck at home bored out of my mind, followed by at least six months on desk duty, and then no guarantee that I'll get back to full duty. Sounds thrilling."

"You need to find something other than your job to live for, Danny."

He sighed. "And here we go again, back to me thinking I don't deserve to be alive. Haven't we talked that to death already?"

Doc looked him in the eye. "What happened in Iraq was not your fault. You agree on that, correct?"

He couldn't breathe for a minute, and then he nodded slowly. "I…I think so."

"Then why do you still think that you do not deserve to be alive?"

He shook his head. "I…I don't know. If I…if what happened in Iraq wasn't my fault…then, then…"

Damn, this was hard.

"Then maybe…I do deserve to be alive?"

"Good job, Danny."

He swallowed hard. "Why the hell do I still feel so…empty? I should be jumping up and down with joy."

"Danny, you've spent nine years thinking you don't deserve to be alive—most of that time, trying to hide that feeling from everyone around you. Realizing that that is a false belief…isn't going to cure your depression in an instant, unfortunately. Neither is a month on Zoloft, or six days of inpatient therapy. It's going to take time."

"I know that, dammit! I just…thought…" He shook his head. "I'm tired of feeling like this, Doc!"

"Like what?"

"Like I don't wanna die, but I don't know what I have to live for without the job. Couldn't sleep last night; had a nightmare. I'm really scared that…the suicidal thoughts will come back."

"I'm going to be honest with you, Danny. The thoughts and impulses probably will come back—which is why we made you a safety plan."

He shivered. "I can't work; I can barely read because of the head. What am I gonna _do_ for two months, Doc?"

"Rest, play chess with your grandfather, do some light exercise, do the brain exercises the ER doc gave you, finish your homework assignments."

O crap. Those. "I tried to kill myself, and I still have to do those stupid homework exercises?"

"Yes. If anything, they're more important now. All I want you to work on is the 5 reasons to keep living, and 5 reasons you deserve to be alive."

"When's my homework due, Doc?"

Doc thought for a minute. "I think I'll give you a few days to settle back in with your family, practice your coping skills. Why don't we schedule our next session for Friday?"

He nodded. "That works."

Doc stood up. "What's your safety plan?"

He pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket. "Distract myself, reach out to whoever's home, call Dad or Linda or Erin, call you or Padre. If none of those things works, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255)."

"Good job, Danny. I'll see you Friday."

He stood, shakily, shook the younger man's hand. "Thanks…thanks for pulling me off the bottom of the ocean floor, Doc," he whispered.


	50. Chapter 50

He sat there after Doc had left.

Tears were stinging his eyes.

He rested his head in his hand.

He should go upstairs and find Linda, but he was tired. Gosh, he was so tired.

There was a hand on his good shoulder, and he jumped.

"Easy, Danny, it's just me."

Linda.

He must be really out of it if he hadn't heard her walk in the room.

"Sorry," he whispered.

He sat up, swiped at his face.

She kissed the top of his aching head, then pulled him close.

"What's wrong?"

He let out a shaky breath.

"John Russell's death wasn't my fault. And it wasn't my fault that…I'm the only one who made it home from Iraq."

Linda's arms tightened around him. "No, no it wasn't."

"Why doesn't that make me feel any better?"

"Because you still miss the guys you lost. You can grieve them without feeling guilty for their deaths."

He sighed. "What am I paying Doc for, if you're so full of wisdom?"

She kissed the top of his head. "Because he's a professional; he knows how to help you. Also, there are things you'll tell him, that you won't tell me—which is a good thing." She pulled him to his feet. "Come upstairs with me and take a nap; you're exhausted."

He nodded. _Yeah, that's because, in between the nightmares, I was trying to talk myself out of making them stop permanently_.

He didn't say it out loud. That wouldn't be fair to her.

He shook his head. "It's 11 a.m., Linda; I got up less than 3 hours ago. I've got homework to do."

"And you can do it later, Danny. Come on, you're still recovering. Don't try to tell me you're not hurting."

He shrugged, winced.

"How 'bout I give you half of the pain pill? Maybe it won't make you feel as lousy."

"Okay, sure."

* * *

When he woke up, he was alone.

He couldn't breathe.

What if…?

Something crinkled under his hand.

A piece of paper.

Linda's handwriting.

 _Sorry, babe, but I had to run over to the boys' school. Your dad and Henry are downstairs_.

Which meant he was just as alone as he had been eleven days ago.

He had palmed the half a pain pill Linda had given him.

Going downstairs was definitely out of the question, until his head stopped trying to explode and his ribs stopped stabbing him.

He glanced at the clock.

He'd only been asleep for 20 minutes.

He sat up, reached into his pocket, pulled out the half-pill, dry-swallowed it.

Narcotic on an empty stomach. Just what the doctor ordered.

 _That was stupid, Reagan_.

He stared at the ceiling.

He reached for his phone but his hand brushed a piece of paper.

He squinted at it in the dim room.

His safety plan.

Exercise was out of the question until his ribs and arm and head healed.

Why had been so dumb as to put it down? Hell, why had Doc let him put it down?

He really didn't want to face his grandfather after that chat they'd had the night before.

His dad was at work. No, Linda's note had said he was downstairs. Yet another family member Danny was inconveniencing.

He really didn't want to call Doc, not half an hour after the younger man had left.

That left one person to call.

He found Padre's number in his contacts.

There was no answer, and he closed his eyes, remembering their conversation the other night.

* * *

" _I've been having that same nightmare…night after night after night…ever since John Russell…killed himself. Every single one of the guys in my unit looks me in the eyes and tells me it's my fault he's dead."_

_He had taken a shaky breath. "The nightmare's new, but the thought isn't. I've blamed myself since I woke up in that hospital bed in Iraq."_

" _Did you ever talk to anyone, tell anyone you blamed yourself?"_

" _Of course not, Padre! Whaddaya think—I wanted to get sent to the department shrink and put on modified for the rest of my life? No, I just did my job harder and walked head-on into danger!"_

" _That's a rough way to live, Dan."_

_He had nodded, taken another, shakier, breath. "Everyone…you, Doc, Linda, Dad…keeps telling me that… what happened in Iraq…wasn't my fault. What…what if…all of you…are right?"_

" _That would change a lot of things for you, wouldn't it, Dan?"_

_He had nodded, unable to look his former chaplain in the eyes. "Scares the hell out of me, pardon my French, Padre."_

" _Why does it scare you?"_

" _Because…I've spent…nine years…trying to redeem myself…thinking I had to justify being alive."_

" _And now, maybe, you don't have to justify being alive?"_

_He hadn't known the answer to that._

" _Isn't that a good thing?"_

_He had shaken his head slowly. "I don't know, Padre. I don't know why I'm alive anymore, if not to redeem myself for their deaths."_

" _Maybe you're meant to live without that burden, Dan."_

" _How?"_

" _By finding another reason to live."_

_He had scoffed. "What are you—my chaplain, or my shrink?"_

_The older man had smiled at him. "Your chaplain, but I've spent 30 years studying human nature, and I took solid Thomistic psychology courses in the seminary." He shifted in the chair, winced, caught Danny's eye again. "If you're not living to redeem yourself for their deaths…then what are you going to live for?"_

" _I don't know, Padre!"_

" _I think you do."_

* * *

He shook his head. He'd snapped at the priest then, and he was still ashamed.

His phone rang.

It was Padre. "Hey, Dan, sorry I missed your call."

"That…that's okay."

"What's going on?"

"Wanted to apologize for snapping at you yesterday."

"Apology accepted; I forgive you. That's not why you called, though. What's going on, Dan?"

He shook his head. He should have known he couldn't fool Padre that easy. "Just talked with Doc about…not blaming myself for the guys in my unit. I still…he still wants me to come up with reasons for living—that don't include redeeming myself for their deaths. I can't…"

"Do you want to live, Dan?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Why?"

"Because…"

Damn, this was hard.

"Because…I want to watch my boys grow up."

"That's a good starting-point, Dan. Go finish your homework; I'll try to come see you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Padre."

The priest hung up, and Danny sighed.

He couldn't procrastinate on his homework anymore.

He found the green folder, sat down on the floor.

The last time he'd worked on any of these lists, had been the morning he'd crashed his car.

The list on top was the one he thought he hated the most: REASONS TO KEEP LIVING.

He'd only ever come up with one legitimate reason that he honestly believed:

_Because my family needs me/I want to watch my boys grow up._

Yet even that hadn't been enough…not that he'd been thinking about his family that night. All he'd been thinking about that night was making the pain stop.

Stupid, selfish…

" **Stop it, Reagan!** " he said aloud.

He was supposed to be stopping the "negative self-talk." Stupid psychological jargon.

He took the pen out, thought about throwing it across the room.

But then he'd have to stand up and go get it, and his ribs would hate him.

So instead he uncapped it, doodled as he tried to find words.

They all sounded so fake, so hollow.

_Because life will get better._

_Because I won't always feel this way._

F-g platitudes.

He wrote them down anyway.

He didn't like them.

Doc probably wouldn't like them, either.

He wrote down the words that Padre and Doc had told him: he deserved to be alive, he needed to have hope that life would get better.

More f-g platitudes.

He leaned his head back against the bed.

_Why do I want to keep living? Why did I tell Doc I don't want to die?_

He drew a line through all the words he'd written.

This was harder than the paperwork he had to fill out every time he discharged his weapon.

Then he remembered what Jack had said in his presentation.

So what if quoting his kid counted as cheating? Maybe he could convince Doc he really meant it.

Slowly, each word hitting him in the chest like a tidal wave, he wrote:

 **I want to keep living because my kids still think I can make a difference in someone's life**.

The waves receded, taking every bit of energy with them.

He set the pen and notebook aside, crawled back into bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Maybe he could sleep without nightmares, for once.


	51. Chapter 51

The days dragged by.

He blinked, surprised, when he stumbled into the kitchen Friday morning to see Erin sitting there.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. "It's after 8 a.m., sis, shouldn't you be at work?"

"I'm taking some personal time. How are you?" she asked softly.

He sat down, winced. "Bored. Doc doesn't want me sleeping all day—not that I _can_ sleep, anyway. I can't read or watch TV for more than 30 minutes at a time, or my head gives me hell—and daytime TV stinks, anyway. I can't help Pops or Dad around the house because of the arm. What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm stuck here—or at home, because eventually we have to go back to Staten Island—for at least six weeks."

"You could go for a walk with Linda. Where is she, anyway?"

"On her way home from dropping the boys at school; she texted me twenty minutes ago to say she was leaving the grocery store. And we went for a walk yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that."

He sighed. "I'm supposed to have a routine, and I sorta do—I go to bed at the same time, get up at the same time." Whether or not he actually slept for those full eight hours was a totally different matter. "I eat my meals, take my pills, and go for a mid-morning walk with Linda. The rest of the day…" He shrugged.

Speaking of eating…

He stood up again, made himself two pieces of toast.

He was buttering it when his kid sister said very, very quietly, "How are you—really, Danny?"

He snagged a hard-boiled egg out of the fridge, sat down.

"I don't know, sis. I don't want to die. Struggling with trying to find things to live for. Don't think Doc will like any of the reasons I came up with. Not sure how I slumped into depression or how I'm going to get out of it."

He said grace, took a bite of his toast. "So, you here because Linda's not? Babysitting me or something?"

"No, Danny; I'm here because we haven't had a chance to talk since…your accident. I wanted to see my big brother, make sure you're okay."

He wasn't okay, but he didn't know how to say that.

He flinched when she slipped her arm around his shoulders.

"I…I need to stay busy, or I'm just gonna get stuck in my own head—which isn't a pretty place right now."

"How 'bout I tell you about my most recent case?"

He nodded, listened half-heartedly.

By the time Erin had finished explaining all the ins and outs of her case, he felt a little less apathetic to life. He'd also managed to eat all of his breakfast.

He needed the job.

Regardless of whether or not Doc thought he needed a reason to live that was not the job, he needed the job to live.

How was he going to survive two months on sick leave?

Maybe he could convince his father, or Gormley, or someone, to sneak in some cold case files to him. Reading them for thirty minutes at a time would make it slow, but then they'd last longer.

"Thanks, sis" he whispered, as Erin put a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Linda came in.

He sat there, frozen, while she and Erin put the groceries away.

Erin left.

"Danny?"

From the tone of Linda's voice, that wasn't the first time she'd called him.

"Yeah?"

"Where's your head at?"

"O, wondering if I can convince anyone to give me cold cases to work on."

She slipped her arms around him, and he winced. "You're on sick leave. You already told me you can't read because of your head…you're supposed to be recovering, not working."

"I'm going crazy here, Linda!"

She moved her hands to his neck, began massaging out the knots.

He groaned.

"Your brain and your body need to rest, Danny."

"If I'm stuck in my own head, with my own thoughts, for much longer, I'm going to drown again."

He couldn't believe he'd said the words out loud.

He stood up abruptly and wandered into the living room. He'd had to learn to shoot with both hands, so maybe he could throw darts with his right hand just as well. Only the darts weren't there.

"Linda, can you find Pops, please?"

His grandfather came downstairs. "What's wrong, Danny?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Was going to play darts, but the darts aren't here. Staring at the board isn't gonna cut it."

"Give me a minute." His grandfather went upstairs, came back.

He sighed. "What, you all locked the darts up now? Afraid I'll stab myself with them?"

"Just trying to keep you safe, Danny. Mind if I join you?"

He shook his head, took the darts, threw the first one.

The motion pulled on his ribs, and he doubled over. Maybe that hadn't been such a bright idea…

"Danny!"

He couldn't breathe.

A firm hand was on his shoulder, rubbing his back; strong arms led his wobbly legs to the couch.

When he could speak, he said, "That was stupid. Stupid ribs."

He took a slow breath. "Going stir-crazy here, Pops. Can't work, can't read, can't play darts."

"Linda's doing laundry, go fold socks with her."

He shook his head. "Mind-numbingly boring."

"It'll give you something to focus on, Danny…making sure the black socks don't get mixed up with the navy blue."

He supposed the old man had a point.

He trudged up the stairs, took the boys' socks out of the basket, folded them.

"Boys have a lacrosse game tonight," Linda said.

He couldn't remember the last one he went to.

He should go.

"Really don't feel like going out."

"It'll make their day, Danny. And didn't Doc tell you that you needed to start socializing?"

"Yeah, because I want their friends' parents to see me and think 'We're never gonna let our kids play with Reagan's kids again, because he's that detective that tried to off himself twice.'"

"Danny!"

"What? I'm just being honest."

"No, you're being confrontational."

He sighed. "No one is gonna want to see me, Linda. Hell, I don't even wanna be around me most of the time. They're just gonna…look at me and see the depressed, suicidal cop, who can't even muster up a smile for his kids."

She rubbed his back. "Danny, no one's going to be expecting you to yell and carry on. Just…be there for the boys, okay? Can you try? For Jack and Sean's sake?

He nodded.

* * *

As he'd expected, Doc did not think he should be working on cold cases, and the younger man was not pleased with the one (well, one-and-one-half) reason(s) for living Danny had come up with.

"We've talked about this enough for you to know you're avoiding the real issue here. You're giving me superficial answers in the hope I won't try to dig deeper."

He leaned his head on his hand. "Doc, come on, I stared at this for an hour yesterday and the day before and the day before. That's all I could come up with!"

"What are you afraid of, Danny?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, you are. Otherwise you wouldn't be resisting this so much."

He cursed the younger man vehemently. Somehow it was disappointing when Doc didn't react.

"What about your family, Danny? If you can't find a reason for yourself to keep living…can you tell me one reason that impacts your family?"

He nodded.

Getting the words out was harder than trying to swim against the current.

"It would…destroy them. Linda would probably have a nervous breakdown, the boys…" He trailed off.

He took a drink of water.

"I…I have to keep living for…for Linda and Jack and Sean, and Dad and Pops, and Erin and Nikki and Jamie."

"Write that down, Danny."

He shrugged. " _Now_ that's an acceptable answer? It wasn't a few weeks ago."

"A few weeks ago, you weren't as deeply depressed as you are now. Right now we'll take what we can get."

Whatever that meant.

Danny sighed, opened the folder, pulled out the notebook.

He tore the top page out, crumpled it up.

On a fresh page, he wrote, carefully, slowly,

**REASONS TO KEEP LIVING:**

**Because my family needs me in their lives**.

Doc kept looking at him.

He sighed, wrote down more words:

 **Because I need my family**.

"Good job, Danny," Doc said warmly. "Take some time between now and Monday to talk to your family, get them to tell you what positive things you bring to their lives."

He nodded.

"And think about what positive things they bring to you. I want to see both lists Monday."

Doc left, and Danny went upstairs to see if he could sneak in a nap or two before the lacrosse game.


	52. Chapter 52

On the way home from the lacrosse game, he sat in the back with the boys, Jack snuggled against his good side. "Good game, kiddo."

"Thanks, Dad."

He ruffled the boy's hair, winced. He'd overdone it with cheering for the boys, and his ribs were stabbing him.

He swallowed hard. "Jack, can I ask you a question?"

"You just did, silly."

"Hey, show some respect!" Linda called from the front seat.

"Sorry," Jack muttered.

"Apology accepted." Danny cleared his throat. "Why…why do you like having me as your dad?"

He couldn't say the rest of the words—" _If you_ do _like having me as your dad_ "—out loud.

Jack gave him a side-eye, as if that were the silliest question he had ever heard in his thirteen years of life. "Because…you have a really cool job, and you help people, and you teach me and Sean sports, and you don't check my math homework, and you used to be a soldier. And because of your job, you make a difference in people's lives every day."

Danny took a shaky breath. "What if…what if I can't do my job anymore, and…I can't help people anymore? Would you still be proud of me?"

Jack tackled him in a bear-hug that knocked the breath of him. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Jack talking. Why was the kid yelling? "Of course! You're my dad!"

When he could breathe again, he returned the hug, ruffled Jack's hair. "Thanks, kiddo."

* * *

"What was that about?" Linda asked when they were alone in the kitchen. The boys had gone to bed, and Danny was making himself a peanut butter sandwich so he could take his meds.

"What?"

"All those deep questions you asked Jack."

Opening a peanut butter jar one-handed was more difficult than he'd remembered. He didn't resist when she took it from him. "Thanks."

He sighed as he spread the peanut butter. "Homework from Doc."

He sat down, took a drink of milk. Supposedly it would help his arm and ribs heal faster. Calcium or something.

"I have to ask you the same question, too. I think Doc phrased it, 'What positive things do I bring to your life?'"

"Danny…!" Her voice was thick with tears, and he flinched when her arms came around him. "You can't…you can't see the good and the joy you bring to my life every day?"

He tensed. "I wouldn't have to ask if I could see it, Linda." The words came out harsher than he'd planned, and he cursed himself.

She kissed his head. "Danny… Almost eighteen years of marriage, and every time you walk in the door, every time you smile at me…I fall in love with you all over again."

"But I have a temper, I do stupid s-t like run into danger and make you mad."

"I only get mad because I worry about you when you run head-first into danger, Danny. I love you."

"Why?" he whispered.

Linda sat down, cupped his face in her hands so he couldn't look away. "You make me smile every time I see you, you'd take a bullet for any one of your family members, you're a wonderful father to our boys; and, when it's just you and me and your hard- $$ reputation is safe, you're the gentlest, most thoughtful, most loving man I know. I love you, Danny Reagan."

She kissed him.

He sighed. "What of that do you want me to tell Doc?"

"None of it!" Linda smirked.

He flinched and pulled away. "It's not a joke, Linda."

"I know. I'm sorry. Tell Doc that…you make me smile every time I look at you, you're a role model for our boys, and you're the most loving man I know."

He finished his sandwich, took his medication, and wrote down Jack's and Linda's answers in his notebook.

* * *

He heard his dad's key in the door. "I need to talk to Dad for a bit, then I'll be up."

She nodded, kissed him, and went upstairs.

"Hey, Danny, how was the boys' game?"

"They won. You're getting home late"—it was almost 10—"long day?"

His dad nodded. "Very long day, but everything's taken care of."

"What happened?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Dad, come on, can't you tell me?"

"No. It's need to know, and you don't." His dad hung his coat up. "I saw Linda going upstairs when I was coming in, which means you wanted to talk to me alone. What's wrong?"

He shook his head, poured himself another glass of milk.

"Got something I need to ask you. It's gonna sound pretty stupid, but it's homework. From my shrink."

His dad poured himself a tumbler of Scotch. "Shoot."

Danny eyed the Scotch longingly, then took another sip of his milk. "Actually, never mind. 'Night, Dad." He put his cup in the dishwasher and bolted for the stairs.

* * *

It was after 10 when he crawled into bed next to Linda. So much for the routine he was supposed to be sticking to…

After 10 p.m. On a Friday.

That meant…

He clung to her. "It's been two weeks. Like, exactly two weeks." He took a shuddering breath. "Feels like it's been a year."

"How are you feeling?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Two weeks ago, he _had_ drowned.

He was still in the water, but now his head was above water, and he was swimming, desperately trying to make it to dry land. He knew the dry land was somewhere out there, but he couldn't see it. There was life and joy out there on the dry land. There were people cheering him on to the finish line, but their words were bouncing off him

"I don't wanna drown, Linda."

"Shhh, I'm here, Danny, I've got you. I'm not going to let you drown."

He closed his eyes and fell asleep to dream of lacrosse games and peanut butter and fighting, fighting, fighting to keep his head above the waves.


	53. Chapter 53

Saturday, after breakfast, he played a game of checkers with Sean. "Good game last night, kiddo. Wore you out, though." Sean had fallen asleep as soon as he got in the car.

The eleven-year-old nodded. "It was great!" He launched into an animated discussion of some very cool thing he had done on the field, which Danny had sorta noticed.

Sean jumped one of Danny's checkers. He cheered. "I'm gonna win!"

Danny cleared his throat. "Sean-O, do you ever wish I wasn't your dad?" He moved one of his checkers.

"That's a stupid question," the kid said. "Of course not." He kicked Danny's foot. "You're not paying attention, Dad, I just jumped two of your checkers."

Danny shook himself. "Sorry, kid." He moved another checker. "So…why do you like having me as your dad?"

Sean shrugged. "You're the only dad I've got. You come to all of my and Jack's games, unless you're working. And if you don't come, it's because you're keeping us safe, not sitting at home drinking beer. Not like my friend Nick's dad—he never comes to Nick's games."

"Sorry to hear about Nick, kid. Is he in your class?"

Sean nodded.

Danny jumped three of Sean's checkers. "Crown me, please."

Sean scowled at him and crowned his piece. "You're not asking me all these questions because you're, like, gonna try to kill yourself and actually do it this time, are you?"

The words hit him like an eleven-foot-wave.

He stood up, walked around the table, and pulled his younger boy into a hug. "No, Sean. I promise you, it's nothing like that. I'm making a list of reasons to help me stay alive, and you and your brother and your mom are at the top of that list of reasons. I promise you, Sean, I am not going to try to kill myself again. Right now I'm doing everything I can to stay alive. I promise."

Sean burst into tears, and Danny rubbed his back. "Shhh, kiddo, I'm not going anywhere, I promise you, Sean-o. Shhh."

When Sean had calmed down, they finished the game.

Sean won, and wandered off to play video games with Jack.

Danny put the game away, then sank into a chair at the kitchen table, leaned his head in his good hand.

He had really screwed up. His kids were always gonna live in fear now, waiting to see if he were going to try to kill himself again.

He almost wished they'd never told the boys what was wrong with him…

* * *

He jumped when a hand rested on his shoulder. "Easy, Dan."

"Dad. Thought you'd gone to brunch with Erin."

"She cancelled; Nikki's sick."

"That stinks. Before you ask, I'm fine, Dad."

The older Reagan sat down across from him. "That's not what I was going to ask. I was going to ask what _you_ wanted to ask me last night before you bolted."

He sighed, shook his head. "Stupid shrink homework."

"You know I'm proud of you for seeing Dr. Dawson, Danny."

"Really, because years of 'Reagans don't do drugs' and 'Reagans don't do therapy' sorta says otherwise."

"Danny, I talked to someone. Briefly. After Joe died. When John McKenna was dying. I didn't have the tenacity that you have, or your willingness to be vulnerable, so it didn't work. What is it you need to ask me, son?"

Danny rubbed the back of his neck. "Do we have to do this now?"

"No, but you're the one with homework and a doctor who won't be happy if you don't have it done by Monday."

He shook his head. "I can't do this now." He pushed his chair back and walked into the living room.

* * *

Linda was on the couch reading. He sat down next to her. "Talked to Sean."

"Good. How'd that go?"

He shrugged, winced. "I don't know. He cried. Now both of our kids are terrified that I'm going to kill myself. Did we really have to tell them the truth?"

Linda put her arm around his good shoulder. "Yes."

His shoulders slumped. "Thanks for…listening last night."

Sometime between 10:30 p.m. and 2 a.m., he had told her everything about that night two weeks ago.

"You're welcome. What are you doing in here instead of talking to your dad?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't…."

"Go take a walk with him. The sun's shining, the snow's supposed to hold off until tonight; the brisk air will do you good."

* * *

Their usual route for a walk was out; there was no way in hell Danny wanted to go anywhere near the pier where his dad fished. He hoped he hadn't ruined that spot for him now. He should have thought of that before he crashed the car there.

They ambled over to a local park, sat down on a bench.

Danny pulled his coat more tightly about him. "You can't stay away from the office forever, Dad."

"I'm not; I go in for a couple hours each day; Garrett and Baker and the rest of my team take care of the things that don't need me personally. Right now, you're my top priority, Danny. Now, what's on your mind, son?"

He wanted to bolt.

He stared at his hands. "Doc wants me to make a list of reasons to keep living."

That sounded a little less stupid out loud than it had in his head.

He took a shaky breath, winced. "My family is at the top of that list. But I…I'm having a hard time seeing why any of you want me around, so Doc…"

He sighed, shook his head.

"Doc wants me to ask each of you: What…what positive things…do…do I bring to your life?"

That sounded _more_ stupid than it had in his head.

Next to him, his father sighed. "Danny, look at me."

He couldn't.

"Danny."

He shook his head. "I know, it's a stupid question."

"No, it's not. Not if it could save your life. Look at me, son. Please."

Now he really wanted to bolt.

He glanced at his dad out of the corner of his eye.

The older Reagan's face was impassive, but his eyes were filled with more love and anguish and respect than Danny remembered seeing…possibly ever.

"Danny…you're my son. That makes me immensely proud of you. That's the number one positive thing you bring to my life."

He rolled his eyes. "O come on, Dad. Cut the sentimental crap."

"It's neither sentiment nor crap, Danny. It's the honest truth."

He scoffed. "Come on, I know I disappoint you. I'm just a grunt, I cross the line at work, I'm a blight on the Reagan name."

"None of those things is true, Danny. You don't cross the line; you _walk on_ the line. You have never disappointed me a day in your life. Made me angry, yes; disappointed me, never."

He kicked at a rock with his shoe. He wished he could believe his father.

"I tried to kill myself twice, Dad; are you honestly gonna tell me that didn't disappoint you?"

"Yes, I am. It made me very sad that you were in so much pain you thought ending your life was the only solution; but I was not disappointed in you."

Danny cursed. "There's no way in hell you're going to sit there and tell me you're still proud of me, not after…"

He pressed his hand to his eyes. This conversation was making his head hurt.

"Danny, against all odds, you are still alive. And what makes me proud right now is that you are _trying to stay alive_. The fact that you are sitting here talking about this with me, when I know you would rather be shot, makes me very proud of you."

He stood up, walked over to the slide, leaned on the ladder. "I wish I could believe you, Dad."

"Do you really think I would lie to you?"

He shook his head. "No, it…it's not that. It's…it's me, Dad. I've had this conversation with Jack, Linda, and Sean, and I'm not sure I believe anything they've said, either."

"Can you at least try, because you know none of us would lie to you?"

He nodded, cursed. Now the jackhammers had started up again in his head.

"Come on, son, let's go home, get you warmed up and get some pain meds in you."

They walked home quietly.

He really wanted to walk up the stairs to his old bedroom, crawl under the covers, and fall asleep; but he wasn't supposed to be napping during the daytime.

So he put one foot in front of the other and walked into the living room.

He sat down on the couch, closed his eyes.

He'd definitely overdone it on that walk.

His head was pounding, his arm was on fire and each breath stabbed like a knife.

"Let me get you a pain pill," Linda whispered.

He swallowed it with the glass of milk she pressed into his hand.

Linda sat down next to him, rubbed his shoulders. "You and your dad talk?"

"Yeah." He started to nod, then stopped. Not a good idea if he wanted to keep his breakfast where it belonged. "I'm all talked-out. Can't handle another difficult conversation. I'm going to go stir-crazy, Linda. I can't drive, I can't play darts, I already played checkers and went for a walk and it's only 10 a.m."

"Close your eyes and get some rest, Danny."

"Not supposed to be napping."

"Doc just doesn't want you spending the whole day in bed. Rest, and let the pain medication do its job."

He stretched out on the couch and fell asleep with Linda rubbing his back.


	54. Chapter 54

He hadn't been in Doc's office in over three weeks.

He rubbed the back of his neck as Linda parked the car. "I don't know why Doc didn't just cancel the session. He could have called me tonight, done a phone session." He knew he was whining, but he did not want to walk inside that building.

"Doc's running on a tight schedule today. He wouldn't have asked you to do this, Danny, if he hadn't thought you were ready."

He tugged at his sling. "Maybe Doc just thinks I'm ready and I'm really not. I mean, I've only been home for a week."

"Just a second." Linda got out of the car and made a phone call.

A few minutes later, Doc came outside. He was carrying two coffee cups. "Hey. Thanks for calling me, Linda. I left my waiting room unlocked for you; coffee's hot. The door to my actual office, where I keep patient files, is locked. I'll call you when we're done."

"Thanks, Doc." Linda kissed Danny and left.

Doc got in the driver's seat, handed him a cup. "Hot cocoa."

He took a sip, set the cup on the dashboard. "What are we doing?"

"We're having your session in the car. Thank you for accommodating my schedule and agreeing to come here. I know it wasn't easy, and I'm proud of you for doing it. I'm not going to force you to come inside, but I would like you to tell me why you're afraid to come inside."

He kicked the door, cursed as that sent a shock-wave of pain through his ribs and arm. "I'm not afraid, dammit!"

"Danny, we both know you default to anger in order to hide other emotions. What are you afraid of?"

He looked out the window. "What if it happens again? What if I have a flashback and bolt? I'm not going to survive another trip to the roof."

"You're afraid you'll act impulsively, in the heat of the moment?"

He took a shaky breath, let it out, nodded.

"And what are you supposed to do if that happens?"

"I don't _know_ , Doc! I've got a f-g safety plan, but it's not gonna do me a bit of good if I'm mentally back in Fallujah and I don't remember I _have_ a safety plan!"

"When's the last time you had a flashback?"

He had to think about that for a minute.

He didn't think he'd had one in the psych ward—not one that he could remember, anyway. And in the week he'd been home…

He turned to look at Doc. "I…I think the night I crashed the car."

"So…it's been 17 days. Do you think the increased dose of the Zoloft is helping with the flashbacks?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"Were you able to do your homework assignment?"

He nodded, picked up the notebook from the floor.

He held it out, but Doc shook his head. "I'd like you to read it to me."

Great.

This was gonna be embarrassing as heck.

He squinted as he tried to read his right-handed writing.

"Jack told me…that he's proud of me because I have a really cool job, I help people, I teach him and Sean sports, I don't check his math homework, and I used to be a soldier. And because of my job I make a difference in people's lives."

He sighed, closed the notebook. "Or I used to. But he…he also said he'd still be proud of me even if I couldn't do my job."

He hadn't written that down.

"Interesting that Jack added that." Doc reached out and took the notebook from him. "Would _you_ still be proud of yourself if you couldn't work as a detective anymore?"

Well, that was an easy answer. No. More like _hell no_.

He sighed. "Why does that sound like a trick question?"

"It's not. Just give me an honest answer."

He stared at his feet. "No," he said very, very quietly.

"You've been on the job, what, almost 20 years?"

"Eighteen." He tried to swallow the words down, but they came, unwanted, "Minus almost twenty months in Fallujah."

He stared out the window. He was not going to cry, dammitall!

"I didn't realize you were in Fallujah that long."

"I'm done talking about Fallujah."

"You're the one who brought it up, Danny."

He kicked the door. "Dammit, Doc!"

It sent a shock-wave of pain up his arm and into his ribs.

He couldn't breathe.

He jumped at the hand on his back. "Take a breath, Danny."

He tried, and couldn't.

Again.

Finally, he took a shaky breath. "Happy now?"

"Can you tell me how you're feeling right now, besides angry?"

"Pissed?"

"Nope, that's the same thing, and you know it, Danny. Tell me one thing you're proud of that you did in Fallujah."

"I've told you everything, I've told you I don't blame myself for my buddies' deaths anymore… There's no f-g reason to talk about Fallujah ever again."

He tried to undo his seatbelt but his hands were shaking.

"Where are you going, Danny?"

"I can't talk about this, Doc! I'm done talking about it! Leave Fallujah alone or I'll…I'll…"

A firm hand was squeezing his good shoulder. "Okay, okay, I won't make you talk about Fallujah anymore. Here, take a sip of your hot cocoa."

He drained the cup, crushed it in his good hand. "Are we done, Doc?"

"Almost. Would you still be proud of yourself if you couldn't work as a detective anymore?"

He shook his head.

"Why not, Danny?"

"Because that's…who I am. It's all I know. I…I don't know what I'd do without the job."

"You've heard the saying 'Work to live, don't live to work'?"

He nodded.

"Why do you think you throw yourself into work the way you do?"

He shrugged, winced.

Doc looked steadily at him. "I'd say it's a good way to avoid facing all the thoughts and feelings that come with post-traumatic stress."

"You know, Doc, I'd been doing a pretty damn good job trying to ignore the fact that I had post-traumatic stress, until…"

He shook his head. He wanted to say _Until you walked into the precinct and figured me out in 5 minutes._ Instead he said, very quietly, "Until I caught the case with Corporal Russell."

"I know. And you know that putting work before everything else is not a good way to live your life."

"Feel like you've said that to me before, Doc. So what, if I don't get my shield back, I sit around and go crazy?"

"No, you find another purpose. I think you will get your shield back, Danny, but regardless of whether or not you do, you need something to live for that is not the job. So…without the job, what do you have left in your life?"

He sighed. "My family?"

"How do you think they would react if you couldn't be part of the 'family business' anymore?"

He looked out the window. "I'd be letting them down if I never got my shield back, or if I turned in my shield."

"Do you really think you would disappoint your father, your sister, your brother, your wife, your boys…if you gave up the shield for the sake of your mental health?"

He nodded.

"If your family had to choose between you resigning, or you being alive, which would they choose?"

"They…they'd want me to be alive."

"That's right. What about you, Danny? If leaving the NYPD were the only solution to better mental health for you—I'm not saying it is, but if it were—would you put in your papers?"

The mere thought of never working another case, never again feeling the adrenaline rush of chasing down the bad guy and cuffing him, never again looking a victim in the eyes and telling him that his assailant would never hurt him again…scared the crap out of him.

He wanted to say an infuriated _hell no_ , but what Doc was really asking him was _Do you want to live? Are you willing to do anything—even resign from a job you love—if it means you stay alive?_

"I…I don't know."

"Which brings us back to: What are you going to live for, Danny?"

It was a simple question.

The answer was choking him.

He swallowed hard. "My family. Staying alive so my dad doesn't have to bury another son, so my boys grow up with their dad, not…not like Tommy Russell. I…I have to stay alive for them."


	55. Chapter 55

He looked at Linda when she got in the car. "I don't want to go home and sit and do nothing; can we go for a walk?"

Linda nodded and drove to a nearby park.

He walked next to her quietly for a while, hoping the cold air would slow his racing thoughts.

"What's wrong, Danny?"

He shrugged, winced. "Doc and I went in circles for forever. He wanted me to tell him what I had to live for. I finally told him my family. And I feel like a total jerk for…that should be the first answer that came to me, not one I had to fight to see."

She squeezed his good hand. "It's okay, Danny. We're here for you, you know that, right?"

He nodded. "I can't sit around and do nothing, Linda, or I'm going to go crazy again!"

"You're not crazy, Danny, and you're not going to go crazy. Let's just get through the next few hours, we don't need a plan for the next eight months. After our walk, we'll go home and I'll help you with some range-of-motion exercises for your arm."

He groaned. "PT already? Do I have to? I can't even move the arm."

"It's your dominant arm, Danny; you don't want it to get stiff on you, do you?"

He shook his head.

They walked through the quiet, snow-blanketed streets until Danny said, reluctantly, "I don't like being cold. Can we go home now?"

"Why don't we stop for coffee or cocoa at that little coffee shop around the corner, warm up?"

He was trying to find the words to tell her that he'd really rather not, when her phone rang. She pulled it out. "Hey, Maria. Hang on."

She covered the mouthpiece. "It's your partner. She'd like to talk to you."

He sighed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her. Sometime before he almost jumped off the roof. He took the phone. "Hey, Baez. What's going on?"

"Danny. Was wondering if you were up to a visit. Just a cup of coffee, no pressure."

He sighed. As always, her timing was perfect. "Linda and I are taking a walk near the park by Doc's office, getting ready to grab a cup of coffee and maybe an early lunch at the coffee shop, you know the one. Meet us there?"

"Sounds great."

* * *

They had just placed their orders when Baez showed up. He saw the shock flicker across her face, but she didn't say anything.

Linda squeezed his good shoulder. "I'm going to the ladies' room, I'll be back."

He nodded.

She left, and he looked at his partner. "Just say it, Baez, I know I look like crap."

"You look like you need sleep and pain medicine, and to gain about thirty pounds, Danny."

He shrugged. "I can't say I recommend breaking three bones in your arm and two ribs at the same time as getting a concussion."

"How are you, Danny, really?" his partner asked softly. "Your dad—the commissioner—came by about a month ago. Told Sergeant Gormley and me what was going on. But really, how are you?"

A month ago. That was a lifetime ago. He shrugged. "I don't know. Tried to kill myself. Spent 6 days in the inpatient psych ward at St. Victor's. Now…trying to stay alive."

His partner's hand slid across the table to squeeze his. "I'm sorry, Danny. But I'm glad you got help."

He nodded, pulled his hand away to cover a yawn. "Sorry. This…all of this, fighting to keep my head above water, is f-g exhausting."

She looked at him blankly, and he explained, "Something Dawson told me in the middle of the Russell case: 'You don't need to wait till you're drowning to reach out for help.' Unfortunately, I was already drowning when he said that. But it takes a f-g amount of work to keep your head above water."

He looked away. "Sorry, that was way more than you wanted to hear."

"It's okay. Anything I can do to help, Danny?"

"I don't know. Gormley given you a new partner yet?"

"Not a permanent one; just a temp until you're back. I've given him strict orders not to touch anything on your desk—he's just keeping it warm for you."

"Thanks, partner. How…how are things at the 5-4?"

"Too calm, too quiet, without you. I'm not trying to rush you back—take as much time as you need—but…any idea how long you'll be gone?"

Their drinks (cocoa for him, coffee for Linda) and sandwiches came then.

He waited until Baez had placed her order and their server had left, before he said, "I don't know. Another two months on sick leave, then probably six months on modified. I'm well enough to be bored, but no way am I ready to come back to work. I'll let you know when I know." He ran his good hand through his hair. "What kind of rumors are going around?"

Linda slid back into the booth next to him.

Baez shrugged. "The main one is that you were injured in some sort of undercover operation."

He scoffed. Unlikely. But far enough from the truth he could live with it.

They chatted for another hour, until Baez's phone rang and she said she had to go; she was on call and she'd caught a case.

When he and Linda left the coffee shop, Danny realized he'd actually eaten his entire sandwich. Yay for him.


	56. Chapter 56

After that unconventional therapy session in Linda's car in the parking-lot of Doc's office, Danny slowly settled into a routine.

He saw Doc every Monday and Thursday, still in Linda's car. The goal was for him to walk into the building by the end of March. Every time he berated himself for being too weak to walk inside the building, Doc told him: "Knowing what you need to do to keep yourself safe from yourself—that's not weakness, Danny, that's strength."

And Padre Donovan, whom he saw once a week for confession and a good chat—which Padre called "spiritual direction," while clarifying it was in no way a substitute for therapy—concurred: "It's like avoiding the occasions of sin. If you're an alcoholic, you stay away from bars and from friends who tempt you to drink. If you have a temper—you stay away from the people who make you angry." Danny scoffed at that one. Staying away from people who made him angry would definitely mean leaving the NYPD.

Jack and Sean were delighted that he was home more—at breakfast before they left for school, and waiting for them when they came home. He forced himself to go to every game, play board games with them, and generally be there in a way he couldn't when he was working.

The days, in the familiar house in which he'd grown up, actually became easier. There was always someone around, with something to keep him busy.

It was the nights that he began to dread. He was exhausted by the time his head hit the pillow, but he couldn't sleep. Every time Linda asked him about it, he shut her down. He felt guilty about snapping at her, but there wasn't anything she could do so why did she bother?

After a week of this he brought it up to Padre, who told him to talk with his doctor—his medical doctor.

Instead, he talked to Dawson.

* * *

Danny woke up one Friday morning, looked at the calendar, and groaned. It had been one month. Thirty f-g days since he'd crashed the car in a (vain) attempt to kill himself.

He looked at his phone. 7 a.m. Great. He'd gotten a whopping three hours of sleep.

The melatonin Doc had recommended had done absolutely nothing. He really did not want to add any more drugs to the ones he was already taking, so he had decided to ride this out until he collapsed from sleep deprivation or something. At least he didn't have to worry about driving while sleep-deprived…

There was talk they'd have the car back in a week. He wondered what they'd do with it. He couldn't drive until he got the cast off.

Yesterday had been a decent day; he'd had a good session with Doc and he thought he'd made some progress reaching the shore.

After his sleepless night, though, today was going to be an _underwater-can't breathe_ sort of day. He wanted to pull the covers up over his head.

Instead, he forced himself to get out of bed, get dressed, and go downstairs.

Linda was cooking breakfast, chatting easily with his grandfather. The boys were wrestling on the living room floor. Jack popped up. "Dad, we don't have school today! Teacher work-day!"

"Great," Danny sighed.

"Coffee's hot, eggs are almost ready," Linda said when he bent down to kiss her.

He nodded, made himself a piece of dry toast, and stayed far away from the mound of scrambled eggs.

No sleep, and no appetite. Great.

After breakfast he played a mindless game of chess with his grandfather. For the first time he could remember, he beat the old man. "Good game, Pops."

They shook hands. "You're not going to gloat?" Henry asked.

He shook his head. "Too tired."

His grandfather disappeared to do whatever it was he occupied his days with.

Danny jumped about a mile when a hand squeezed his good shoulder. "Easy, it's just me," Linda said, and he cursed himself for letting her sneak up on him. "Are you okay? You didn't sleep last night."

He shook his head. "Sorry I kept you up."

"It's okay. What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I need to go fix the hall bathroom for Dad."

Thankfully it was an easy fix, even one-handed.

When he had done that and two odd jobs for his grandfather, he wandered into the living room, stared into the yard.

Images…Fallujah, John Russell, Tommy Russell, the roof of Doc's office…flickered through his mind.

They disappeared against the image of headlights reflecting off the water right before he crashed into the concrete barrier.

He pinched himself to keep from having the mother of all flashbacks.

Someone was talking to him. The voice sounded like it was on the other side of the ocean.

A small hand slipped into his good hand. "Dad, are you okay? I asked you like 5 times if you wanted to play checkers," Sean said.

He blinked, turned to look at his younger son. "Yeah, yeah, just…thinking too hard. 'Course I'll play checkers with you."

He lost.

For the sake of something to do, he did a load of his own laundry.

When he turned to leave the laundry room, Linda was standing there staring at him. He jumped. "Sorry, didn't…didn't hear you there."

"You've been a million miles away since you got up. Boys are worried, Sean said he had to call you 5 times before you heard him; I've been standing here talking to you for 10 minutes and you didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

He shook his head. "How ticked would you be if I took a walk alone?"

"Not ticked, worried. Let me come with? I'll let you brood if that's what you need."

He nodded, got his coat and hat as the grandfather clock struck 10 a.m.

He walked a familiar path, not really paying attention to where he was going.

He stopped, hearing water, looked at where he was, and cursed.

His feet had led him—slowly, because the local church bells were chiming the half-hour—the one mile to the pier his father used to like to fish at.

He stopped a good 20 feet from the concrete barrier. "I thought there would be skid marks," he whispered.

But of course there weren't; it had been a month, and there had been so much snow…

He could, however, see broken glass.

That would be from the car window and the side mirror.

He tried to turn away but all of a sudden he couldn't take a breath and movement of any kind required actually being able to breathe.

He was surrounded by water and he couldn't breathe underwater and crap he was going to die.

Someone was rubbing his back. "Danny, breathe."

"Can't," he gasped.

"Yes, you can. It just feels like you can't."

Linda. Linda was there. Why was she there, why had she come back with him?

Hands led him and his rubbery legs over to a bench, turned him so he couldn't see the concrete barrier.

One hand was on his shoulder, another hand rubbing his chest.

"Can't breathe," he said again.

"Yes, you can, Danny. You're having a panic attack."

"No, can't…"

"Shhh, you can breathe, it just feels like you can't. Try to take a deep breath, Danny. With me, okay? In…through your nose, and out…through your mouth."

He took a wheezing, rattling breath. _You sound like you're dying, Reagan_.

"That's it, Danny, keep going. Easy."

Why was Linda still there?

She was saying something. It sounded vaguely comforting.

Another gasping breath.

Several more.

Then finally he could breathe normally and he pulled away from Linda, buried his face in his hands. He cursed vehemently. "Sorry."

"Shhh, it's okay, you're okay, Danny."

After a few minutes he sat up, cursing at the tears pricking his eyes. "I'm falling apart, Linda. What's happening to me?"

"You're not falling apart, Danny. You came back to the scene of a traumatic event, and you had a panic attack. I'm pretty sure Doc would say that's normal."

She rubbed his back.

After a few minutes, she said, carefully, "I think you should call Doc, tell him what just happened. I'll give you a minute."

She stood up, and he grabbed her hand. "Please don't leave!"

"I'm not leaving you, Danny. I'm just going to sit on that bench over there, so you can talk to Doc privately. Look at me, not the site of the crash. I'm right here, okay?"

He nodded.

He was shaking as he pulled out his phone. Doc answered on the fifth ring. "Hey, Danny, I'm with a patient right now. Where are you, are you safe?"

"I…I'm with Linda. At the scene of the car crash. I…yeah, I…I'm safe."

"Okay. Did you have a flashback or a panic attack? You sound wheezy."

He nodded, even though Doc couldn't see him.

"I want you to go home, take one of your anxiety pills, and do some of the relaxation exercises we talked about. I'll call you in 30 minutes, okay?"

He nodded. "Thanks, Doc."

He walked home with Linda, ate another piece of dry toast and a fried egg, took the pill with a glass of milk, and practiced deep breathing. That was the only one of the 'relaxation exercises' that didn't sound like total hogwash.

He was staring at his grandfather's crossword puzzle, and regretting the fact that he'd dropped the pencil on the floor and couldn't bend down to pick it up, when his phone rang. "Hey, Doc."

"Hey, Danny. Thanks for waiting for me. Tell me what happened, I'm listening."

"Went for a walk with Linda, didn't really pay attention to where I was going, wound up at the pier. Where I crashed the car…four weeks ago today. I saw the broken glass from the window and the side mirror; and…all of a sudden I couldn't breathe."

"Were you having a flashback to the crash, or a panic attack?"

"Panic attack. Linda talked me through it."

"Can you tell me what you were thinking when you saw the broken glass?"

"How…how close I came to leaving Linda a widow and my boys fatherless."

"And that thought scared you?"

He nodded.

"Use your words, Danny, I can't see your body language."

"Sorry." He sighed. "Yeah, it scared the crap out of me, Doc."

"Why'd you walk down to the pier, Danny?"

He sighed exasperatedly. "I don't know, Doc! I didn't do it on purpose; it's where I go whenever I'm at my dad's and take a walk."

"Okay, take a breath, Danny. You're okay. I'm not surprised you had that kind of reaction to being back there, though I'm going to ask you to find another route for your walks. Can you do that?"

"That's all, Doc? Find another path to walk so I don't have a panic attack?" He'd expected something more…

"Danny, I think you're stressing too much about this. I'd honestly be surprised if you hadn't reacted that way to unexpectedly being back at the scene of the crash. Go relax and spend time with your family, okay?"

He nodded. "Sure. Thanks, Doc."

* * *

He slogged his way through the rest of the day.

He refused dinner—"I think I'm coming down with something," he lied—and threw darts at the dartboard until his good arm ached.

Then, for good measure, he threw darts for another 20 minutes.

He crawled into bed at 9 p.m.

He pretended to be asleep when Linda lay down next to him at 10.

Two hours later, he couldn't handle being alone with his thoughts anymore.

He scribbled a note for Linda, and went downstairs.

His father and grandfather sat at the kitchen table, each with a cup of warm milk. They jumped guiltily, so they'd been talking about him. "Hey, Danny."

He sat down, pleased that his ribs were no longer stabbing. His left arm was killing him, though, because he'd accidentally banged it into the wall earlier. "Hey, Dad, Gramps."

"What are you doing awake?"

He shrugged. "Just can't sleep. Didn't want to wake Linda."

His dad stood, got the milk out of the fridge, and heated a cup in the microwave. He handed it to Danny. "Careful, this mug gets hot. What's on your mind, son?"

He shook his head, blew on his milk. "I don't know, Dad."

"You and Linda still talking about going home this weekend?"

He shrugged. They'd only been talking about it because he was afraid he was being a burden and getting in his father's and grandfather's way. He didn't want to leave. Back home on Staten Island, when the kids were at school, it would just be him and Linda—since she was on leave until he returned to modified duty. He wanted—needed?—to have other people around.

"You know you can stay here as long as you want."

He nodded, sipped at his milk. "Yeah. Thanks, Dad. Eventually I have to get back to 'normal' life, or try to. Whatever the hell 'normal' is."

"'Normal' is overrated," his grandfather said.

"Not when 'normal' means not being depressed and not wanting to kill myself," Danny said bitterly.

"Danny!"

He shrugged. "What, Dad? I'm sick and tired of feeling like an outcast because I'm in therapy and because I'm on medication and because without those things I'd be dead!"

He pushed his chair back, grabbed his mug, and stalked out the kitchen door to sit on the porch. Never mind that it was midnight, 32˚, and snowy.

He wasn't surprised when the door opened, heavy footsteps came towards him, and a blanket was draped over him. "Danny, I know I've told you, and I think Pops has told you, that we don't think any less of you because you're in therapy and on medication. I for one am proud as hell of you."

He shook his head. "You won't be when I tell you what happened today. Went for a walk, ended up at the pier, and had a whopping panic attack. Thought I was gonna die right there."

"Danny…" His dad's voice cracked. "I can see several reasons to be proud of you. You faced your fear, you got through a panic attack, you didn't do anything rash. You're talking rather than bottling everything up. You're trying to get better, and that's all that matters to me, son. Can you trust me on that?"

He supposed he didn't have any choice.

"Yeah, yeah, I can do that," he whispered.


	57. Chapter 57

He got the cast off eight weeks after he'd crashed the car. According to Linda, that was late. O well.

Then he had two weeks of physical therapy—even worse than the range-of-motion exercises Linda had been doing with him when he still had the cast on.

Physical therapy sucked, but so did CPT and EMDR and all the other therapies Doc had done with him (because apparently the man knew all the therapy methods). He gave Doc hell, like he had at their first meeting; but he really did want to get better, so—since he couldn't channel his anger into the punching bag or into catching the bad guys—he channeled it into doing his homework and talking about all the feelings.

He was feeling slightly confident but also incredibly nervous (breakfast that morning had come with a return ticket) when he walked into Dr. Forsythe's office at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday in early May.

He filled out all the paperwork, answered the multiple-choice questions that put him in a nice tidy box labelled "unfit for duty," and talked with Forsythe.

And when it was over a little after 3 p.m., and he was exhausted, he got in his car—grateful that he had the car and that he could once again drive—and went for a drive.

* * *

Alex Dawson ushered his second-to-last patient out the door, finished his notes, locked all the paperwork in the filing cabinet, and sat down. It was almost 4, and his last patient of the day was Danny Reagan.

His phone rang, and he glanced at it. It was Linda Reagan, and he felt a brief stirring of panic. "Hello, Linda, what's wrong?"

"Have you heard from Danny? He promised he'd call me as soon as he got out of his eval, and it should have been over by 3! His phone's off; it keeps going to voicemail. I…I'm scared, Doc! What if it didn't go well, and he's…?"

She trailed off, and Alex said gently, "In our session yesterday, he was understandably nervous about the eval, but nothing raised any red flags with me. I'll try to call him, and then I'll get his partner to trace his phone for me."

"Doc, if he's not answering my phone calls..."

"Linda, he probably thinks the eval went badly, and is feeling overwhelmed. I'll reach out. I promise I'll let you know as soon as I hear from him."

"Thank you, Doc. Please find him!"

"I will, Linda." He hung up and called Danny's phone. It went straight to voicemail, but he left a message anyway. "Hey, Danny, it's Doc. Just checking in to see how your eval went. I'll see you soon, okay?"

Then he called the precinct, worked his way through to Danny's partner. "Detective Baez, this is Dr. Dawson. Have you seen your partner since he got out of his eval?"

"No, Doc, why?"

"Never mind. Can you give me the address of Corporal Russell's apartment—the one where you and Danny found him and Tommy?"

He heard her gasp. "Doc, you don't think...?"

"I think Danny may have gone there to find closure; I do _not_ think he's suicidal."

She rattled off the address.

He drove as fast as he dared.

* * *

Danny was sitting on the curb, his head in his hands.

Alex let out a sigh of relief. He sat down next to the older man. "I would've come out here with you if you'd told me you wanted to come."

The detective looked up. "Doc? What are you doing here?"

"Think I should be asking you that."

He shrugged. "Came here to get closure. Was going to walk through the last ten minutes of Corporal Russell's life, but couldn't do it. Had a panic attack even thinking about going up on the roof. Was afraid I might…do something stupid."

"You could've called me."

"Battery died."

"You better call Linda, she's freaking out. Here, use my phone." He handed it to him.

Danny dialed her number. "Hey, babe. Yeah, I'm okay. Just…had my phone off for the eval. Turned it on and the battery died. I…took a long walk. I'm…Doc's here with me now, we're going to chat. I'll see you tonight. Yes, I promise. Love you…love you most."

He handed it back to Doc. "I didn't come here planning to…go on the roof and end it all."

"Then why?"

"Closure. I think. I…I thought about every little f-g detail; and… you were right that…unless John had wanted to come down safely, there's no way I could have gotten him off that ledge. Not safely."

"What does that tell you?"

"That…that…John Russell's death wasn't my fault."

Alex nodded appreciatively. "You're absolutely right about that."

He stood up, held out his hand. "It's chilly out here; what do you say we take this chat to my office?"

He nodded and rose, shakily. Alex grabbed his arm to steady him. "You okay?"

"Just cold."

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"Nothing that stayed down. Nerves."

"When we get back to my office, I'll order us something."

Alex drove behind Danny in order to make sure the detective didn't try to bolt again; and once inside, he dragged a space heater out of the closet, plugged it in. "Sit in front of this." He ordered soup and sandwiches for them, made a pot of coffee.

"How're you holding up, Danny?"

The detective shrugged. "I don't think the eval went well. I was honest with him, I didn't try to B.S. him, not like I have before; and I think…"

"Wait…Forsythe didn't give you the results of the eval when you left his office?"

Danny looked surprised. "No… Was he supposed to?"

"Hang on." Alex walked over to his desk, looked through a file, dialed a number. "Dr. Forsythe, this is Alex Dawson. I have a patient of yours here, you gave an FFD eval to Detective Daniel Reagan today?"

" _Yes, I did. Why?_ "

"You told him the results before he left your office, didn't you?"

" _No, I figured the department would be in touch with him_."

Alex kicked his desk. "Dammit, Matt! Do you know how many NYPD officers have committed suicide after an FFD eval that they felt went badly—even if it actually didn't? Three in the past 18 months! Do you really want Detective Reagan to be the fourth? You know the protocol—you give the results to your patient _before_ he leaves your office. What were the results of Detective Reagan's evaluation?"

* * *

Doc was writing furiously on a legal pad, then said "Thank you," and hung up. "Sorry about that, Danny."

He blinked. "You…you were angry…for me. Because of me."

"'Course I was, Danny."

"Did I pass?"

"Yes. You start your six months of modified duty on Monday."

Monday would be…four months…

He looked at Doc. "Does it have to be Monday? Because that…that's 4 months since…since all of this started."

He couldn't say _Four months to the day since John Russell killed himself_.

"Yeah, it does. And I know. We'll talk that night."

He looked up at Doc. "I get to return to modified duty. So…all of this…"

He stood up, walked over to the coffee-pot, and slowly flipped through the pages of Doc's wall calendar.

Then he turned to face the younger man. "It's been 16 weeks. The worst…16 weeks of my life, even worse than Fallujah. But if I return to modified duty, then…all of this…it's all over?"

Alex Dawson nodded. "It's over, Danny, but the important thing is: the rest of your life is just beginning now. What are you going to do now that you're on dry land?"


	58. Chapter 58

Now that he was on dry land he had to fight to stay there.

Because the tide kept coming in and trying to pull him out to sea. Unfortunately, he couldn't predict when it would try to drown him, because—unlike ocean tides—it had all the regularity of a hurricane.

It crashed over him when he woke up from nightmares. It tried to pull his feet out from under him when he was driving to work. So he started leaving 30 minutes earlier than he had to so he could pull over and talk himself out of driving off the bridge.

The tide was worst during his 40 hours a week on modified assignment. The thoughts were brutal: _He wasn't doing the job he'd trained for; he was a worthless detective; with his luck, he'd languish here for years_.

He used every coping mechanism Doc had taught him to outrun the tide.

Slowly, the hours turned into days, the days into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. May ended and turned into June, June to July, July to August. Their family's annual vacation rolled around, but after the metaphor Doc had used in January—the most apt metaphor Danny had ever heard in his life—he didn't think he would ever again enjoy the beach. So he took Linda and the boys to the mountains instead.

After a week in the brisk mountain air, he went back to work in early August. Almost half-way done with half of his time on modified.

Every Sunday, as always, he went to Mass and family dinner.

He went out weekly with Jamie for darts and soda. Occasionally he took a cautious sip of his brother's beer, but he really didn't want to find out the consequences of mixing the anti-depressant and alcohol, so that was a rare occasion.

* * *

Twice in August, when Linda was working nights and he was home alone (well, the boys were there, but he couldn't talk to the 13-year-old or the 11-year-old), he picked up the phone and dialed the hotline number (1-800-273-8255) and talked to the anonymous person on the other end of the line until the tide receded and he could breathe again.

* * *

It was mid-November when he had his second fitness-for-duty eval. Linda had dropped him off, and she'd promised to pick him up when it was over.

At the end of the 7-hour evaluation, Forsythe muttered something about "meddling doctors" and "actual department policy," and gave him his results.

He had passed.

He was surprised, when he walked out of Forsythe's office on the 4th floor of 1 PP, to see his father.

He straightened to attention. "Commissioner."

"At ease, Detective Reagan."

He relaxed just a fraction, only to tense up again when his father pulled out his badge and gun.

"I think these belong to you. Welcome back, Danny. You start Monday."

His father pulled him into a hug. He didn't resist.

* * *

Linda hugged him when she got there.

Without his having to ask, she drove to Doc's office.

He was getting in his car, and he smiled when they pulled up. "Danny, Linda! I hope this is good news?"

Danny nodded, opened his jacket to reveal his gun and badge.

The younger man held out his hand. "Congratulations, Detective Reagan."

"Thanks, Doc," he whispered, and stared at his feet. "Can…can I talk to you for a second? It won't take long."

"Of course." Doc sat down on the curb, and Danny sat down next to him. Linda got back in the car.

"Thank you for pulling me to shore."

"Thank you for reaching out for help, Danny. You have no idea how much more strength it took for you to reach out for help, to admit you were drowning, than it did for me to keep your head above the water. You did all the heavy lifting, Danny."

He nodded, not sure how to respond to that. "I suppose this is goodbye, unless I start to drown again?"

"Actually, Danny, I have a suggestion. This is obviously not mandatory, but I think it would be good for you to keep coming back, just to talk through things, make sure you reach out before you're knee-deep in water."

He didn't have to think about the words, they just came out. "Yeah, that would be good. Thanks, Doc. How often?"

"I'll keep the 8 o'clock Monday slot open for you. If you want to tentatively say every other week, we can do that; and if something major comes up, you can always see me weekly."

He nodded, stood up. Doc stood up, too, and he gripped the younger man's hand. "Thank you."

Danny looked Alex Dawson in the eyes. "When you told me I didn't need to wait till I was drowning to reach out for help…that advice…was worth a million dollars. See you around, Doc."


	59. Epilogue

Danny stood at the pier looking out over the bay.

He heard footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn. He'd know that quiet tread anywhere. "Thanks for coming, Doc."

"You're welcome, Danny. How you holding up?"

He let out a shaky breath. "It's been a year."

"I know." The younger man leaned on the railing next to him. "What I don't know is why you thought coming back here was a good idea."

He shrugged. "Figured it would be appropriately therapeutic. Back at the scene of the crime, walk through what happened. Except for one time, I haven't been back here since it happened. Don't think my dad fishes here anymore, either."

"That's understandable. May I ask again, how you holding up?"

He flinched a little...it was the exact same question Doc had asked him during the John Russell case. "You see me every Monday; it's not like you don't know how I'm doing."

"But there is a reason you came back to the site of your last suicide attempt, and I would like to know that reason, if you can tell me."

He sighed, kicked a pebble into the water. Dang, this was hard. "I can't."

"Then tell me this, Danny: How do you think you're doing, one year later?"

He cursed quietly. He hated self-reflection, and he'd had to do way too much of it in the past 13 months. But he _had_ asked Doc to join him here, so he supposed he'd set himself up for this...

"Before John Russell...I just had an anger issue. Now, after Russell...well, my whole family and most of the people I work with know I have PTSD. Hell, I didn't work for 10 months last year."

He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "Spent years hiding the PTSD—and doing a damn good job of it. But now I don't have to hide it anymore. And that scares the hell out of me, Doc."

"Why does it scare you, Danny?"

He shrugged. "What if I…go off the deep end, hurt an innocent bystander, or a victim, or...my family?"

"Danny, the only way you would 'go off the deep end' would be a flashback, and we have those under control—unless you haven't been telling me everything."

He sighed. "They're under control, Doc. Meds are working. Therapy techniques are working."

"Then why are you afraid you'll snap and hurt someone?"

He kicked the pier. "Because I'm still so f-g angry at everything that happened—in Iraq, with Russell—and with everything that is happening on the job."

"So what do you do with all that anger?"

Again, a familiar question.

He shrugged. "Take it out on the punching bag, talk to Baez and Linda and Padre and you and my dad, instead of bottling everything up."

"This week alone, this is the fourth time we've talked. You're doing a pretty good job handling your anger, Danny. You're talking about it-you're not going to explode."

He nodded. "So how do I stop...being afraid...that it's all going to happen again?"

"Have a little faith in yourself, Danny. You've come a long way from who you were in my anger management class two years ago. And an even longer way from who you were a year ago. You're okay, Danny. I'll see you a week from Monday."

He pressed something into Danny's hand, and walked away.

Danny looked at it, and swallowed a lump in his throat.

He was holding a pair of over-sized dog tags. On one side was his name.

The other side read: " ** _True strength is not trying to make it to shore by yourself. True strength is reaching out for help when you're drowning. To the strongest man I know—Doc_**."

Danny swallowed hard a few times, then drove home to his family.


End file.
